


The Final Pack

by Kedreeva



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Apocalypse, Berica (side pairing), Canonical Character Death, Dragons, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Jydia (side pairing), M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-Apocalypse, Road Trips, Rune Magic, Scallison (side pairing), Slow Burn, Were-Creatures, Werewolves, apocalypse au, background Danny/Matt, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 112,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humankind is fighting its way back from near extinction against the supernatural beings that fed upon the remaining humans in the aftermath of the 2012 apocalypse. On the front lines, Stiles' best friend gets bitten by a werewolf and Stiles must strike a bargain with wolves in order to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for plotting with me and letting me ramble out this idea with you, Nika.

 

 

* * *

  
_I'm writing because we should not be forgotten._  
_Because we should be more than a footnote in the history of humankind._  
_We should be more than text on a page, more than a memory._  
_We should be a legend. We lived and we loved and we lost_ so much _._

_Maybe we can at least be a lesson..._

* * *

 

            The empty, metallic room was spotlessly clean, smelling of stainless steel and filtered air, the chill of it seeping into Stiles' skin the longer he sat in the uncomfortable metal chair. It was bolted to the pock-marked floor just like the empty metal table at which he sat, neither of them capable of being used as weapons. He slouched in the seat, thumbs hooked together, his hands between his knees, counting the pock marks in each metal tile even though he knew there were 196 in each.

            There were 196 divots in each tile in his room, too.

            Exactly ten minutes - because it was always exactly ten minutes - after he had been left alone in the little interrogation room, the door across the table from him opened. Stiles didn't bother looking up. He knew the man that came to see him would enter, cross the room, lay a folder on the table between them. He would take a seat, like he had done every week for two years now, and he would wait for Stiles to speak. Sometimes Stiles would look back at him until their hour was up, sometimes Stiles would keep counting. It didn't matter which, not to either of them.

            "Mr. Stilinski," greeted a soft, feminine voice.

            Startled, Stiles looked up, the cuffs on his wrists clacking together. This wasn't Harris. This was someone new, someone Stiles had never seen before in his life. She was thin, dark skinned, with very straight, dark hair and she was deceptively beautiful, innocent. But Stiles knew better, looking into her doe-brown eyes. She may not have been Harris, but she still wanted something from him, was still scheming about how to get it.

            "My name is Marin. Marin Morrell."

            He dropped his gaze.

            "Where's Harris?" Stiles asked, voice rough from disuse.

            "Out," she answered ambiguously.

            "So they sent a newbie? They shouldn't have sent you," he told her. "You couldn't take me if I got out of my cuffs."

            She studied him for a moment, the familiar brown folder held close to her breast, like a shield. "I suppose we won't find out. You're not out of your cuffs."

            Looking back up at her, he smiled the sort of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, hollow and dangerous. "Are you sure about that? Willing to stake your life on it?"

            Her eyes traced over him, over the way he sat, over the way he looked at her, and then she moved into the room, laid her folder on the table between them. There was something else in the pile that Stiles didn't recognize, something wrapped in a wrinkled, brown-paper bag. A little, black recording device sat nestled on top of the stack.

            Then she took her seat, crossed her legs, and met his eyes. "Shall we find out?"

            For a moment he considered his options. Gerard wouldn't have sent someone in with him if they didn't know their shit. He wouldn't have put anyone unwitting into that sort of danger, if only because it would make him look bad. So whoever this was, however nervous she looked, she could probably take care of herself. Maybe she could take care of Stiles, if Stiles found a reason to resist. Instead, he pulled his wrists up from beneath the table, laid them out before her, cuffs intact. She just smiled politely.

            "I'm not here to fight you," she told him quietly. "I'm here to learn from you. It's been over two years since you spoke to anyone about what happened."

            "Gonna be at least two more," Stiles told her coldly.

            She pursed her lips. "You have to talk to someone."

            "I don't have to talk to anyone," Stiles replied evenly. "Not ever."

            Sighing, she leaned forward, as if consulting him, as if advising him. He knew she was just prying. "You've been in solitary for two years, Stiles. Aren't you tired of it?"

            He leaned forward as well, forearms sliding on the cool metal of the table until he reached the end of his chain, bolted to the floor, hooked to his cuffs. He looked her right in the eyes. "Ma'am... when I'm tired of solitary, you'll know."

            A sense of satisfaction curled in Stiles' gut when she took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. He could almost hear the way she tried to organize her thoughts, find another angle by which to approach him, but the problem was that Stiles had been through two years of angles. Harris had covered every angle, asked every question, made every threat. He'd offered anything, everything he thought Stiles might want. Not once had he ever found a crack, an opening to get under Stiles' skin.

            There was nothing left that Stiles wanted. Nothing they were capable of giving him, anyway.

            Yet, she'd been in the room with him for less than ten minutes before she folded her hands in her lap, leaned back in her chair, and pressed exactly where it hurt most.

            "They tell me you fought alongside werewolves, Stiles. Can you tell me at least that much? Is it true?"

            Of course she didn't need him to answer. She'd seen the way he started at the word 'werewolves,' a light coming to his eyes. But he looked away from her, pulled his hands off the table. "Yeah," he admitted quietly, voice cracking. "It's true. I used to, once."

            Her expression softened sadly. "I'd like to know what happened."

            The haunted look in his eyes when he glanced up to her was enough to break hearts. He just shook his head, jaw tight. "I don't want to talk about it."

            "Ever?" she asked.

            "Maybe. Not right now," he told her. "Not with you."

            She tipped her head, just the tiniest amount, and Stiles' heart gave a little twist. The gesture had been familiar once. "Why not me?"

            Lips pursed, a disgusted noise rough at the back of his throat, Stiles solidly met her gaze. "Because you _can't_ understand." He shook his head, because it was impossible for her to think she could. Not hiding behind walls like these. "You've never loved them. And now they're gone, so you can't."

            That seemed to quell her momentarily, her dark eyes tracing over him, letting his words sink in fully. She would know some of the story, whatever they had thought she needed to know before she went into the room. They would have told her how _dangerous_  Stiles was, but no one would have mentioned how _broken._  Stiles wondered what it felt like, to see him in person.

            "I'd like to," she told him quietly.

            He gave her a funny look, shaking his head just enough to give the impression he thought she was being completely ridiculous. "Why do you even care, lady?"

            "Someone has to, don't you think?" she returned solemnly.

            Stiles snorted derisively. "No one ever did before."

            The remark didn't seem to phase her at all. "You did," she said evenly.

            For a moment he just stared at her, mouth slightly open, and then he scoffed, looked away again. "Yeah, and look where that got me."

            Sitting up, she reached for the recorder on the table, moved it off the small stack, separated the object in the brown-paper bag, and laid open the folder. Stiles looked away, because he knew what was in the folder. Transcripts, pictures, documents. His past. She pulled out one, moved it in front of him, tapped it once with her middle finger. When he spared it a glance, his brow furrowed because it was one he didn't recognize.

            "Do you know what this is?" she asked softly. Before he could answer she continued. "It's a release form. There have been some... _changes_ recently. Some new information has come to light, and if I can debrief you, I can have you released."

            Stiles' gaze fell to the document again, tracing over the typewriter print, the handwritten information in the blank spaces. He shook his head, leaned back away from the table again. "Doesn't matter," he told her. "Out there, in here... it doesn't matter."

            Slowly she nodded, and then reached for the brown-paper bag. As she unwrapped it, she told him: "I thought you might say that, so I brought a piece of the information that was uncovered. I have reason to believe you will find it invaluable."

            She laid upon the table a small, leather-bound journal, tied shut but not locked, the pages slightly wrinkled from damp storage. It clung to the steel beneath it as she slid it across the table to rest in front of him. Hesitantly, his heart in his belly, he reached up and brushed his fingers over the blood-stained surface. Tears jumped to his eyes, memories washing through him as if someone had opened a floodgate.

            He recognized this journal.

            "Where-" his voice cracked, broken, and he cleared his throat, looking up to her. "Where did you get this?"

            "It was recovered when you were captured," she told him. "Lost in storage. You can open it, if you'd like."

            Swallowing thickly, Stiles unlooped the leather holding the journal shut, pulled the cover away from the sheets of paper within. Rough words lay scratched onto the pages in a handwriting that was so, so familiar, even after over two years of its absence from his life. He closed his eyes, because he knew the first words on the page by heart, felt them like a vice on his heart.

            _I'm writing because we should not be forgotten._

            This was Derek's journal.

            "You've read it?" he asked quietly.

            "Every word," she replied.

            He met her eyes. "Then you know what happened."

           With an open-handed gesture, she indicated the recorder still sitting upon the table. "I need to hear it from you, Stiles. Everything that happened, in as much detail as you can give. I'm sorry I have to ask this of you, I am, but they need to hear your story. All of it."

            "They?" Stiles repeated.

            She smiled apologetically. "I can't tell you who. I have to ask that you trust me for now."

            He dropped his gaze to the journal once more, eyes tracking over the script, mind tracing over the memories. He could feel himself strung tight enough to snap and so he took a deep breath, forced himself to relax. It had been so long, and they were not in danger anymore. No one could take them from him if he shared with the soft-spoken woman before him now and just maybe she could bring their story to others.

            Derek would have wanted that. To have his pack remembered.

            They deserved that much, Stiles thought.

            "Okay," he whispered, more a surrender than an agreement.

            With a small nod, she reached out and clicked the record button.

 

* * *

 

            From the corner of his eyes, Stiles could see the others in the squad spread out in the dense foliage around him. Scott was ahead of the group by at least 20 feet, ranging ahead because he had the softest step of any of them, even on the frost-bitten, crackly leaves of the forest. To his right he could just make out the shadow that was Danny and to his left somewhere was Jackson, only visible when he moved. It was a good team to have on a foggy January morning, even if it was missing two of its members.

            He raised one hand, pressed a finger to the com button near his ear. "Scott, don't get too far ahead, buddy."

            "Oh, that's rich coming from you," Scott replied and Stiles could almost hear the eye roll that accompanied it. "What are you gonna do if I don't listen?"

            Stiles scoffed, then tapped the com again. "I'll make sure you don't get a red meat ration for a week when we get back."

            "You can't!" Scott squawked, though he probably meant to sound confident. Red meat rations were something very precious to them, since the livestock that needed to be raised to provide it had been scarce to find around their base. The population was only just climbing, with all the mouths to feed.

            "Want to bet?" Stiles asked. "If I can keep it away from my dad, I can keep it away from you!"

            The crackle across the com probably contained a few choice words for what Stiles could do with that plan before it cleared.

            "You really want to be making that threat?" Danny's voice broke over the com. "McCall will take squad lead back in a few months and he'll remember this."

            "A few months?" Stiles teased. "We'll be lucky if we see him out of that nursery for a year after the kid's born. Allison either. It'll be just us, boys, and Matt when he's better."

            "I'm not following your dumbass lead for a year, Stilinski," rattled Jackson's voice in the com.

            "Not going to have a choice, Whittemore," Scott reprimanded. "When I'm out, Stiles is in charge, you know that. You signed up for that."

            "I didn't- Hey," Jackson said, cutting himself off before he could pick a fight. "Guys, I think I found something. Footprints. Heading off two-o'clock from where I am."

            "On our way," Stiles told him, changing course to about where he figured Jackson should be. It was hard to see in the fog, but when Danny caught up to him he motioned just a little to their right where Jackson was crouched. Scott was clambering through the dead underbrush to reach them.

            Jackson motioned to the indentations in the soft mud below them. Stiles traced the outline of the print with his eyes, the rainwater gathering in the long arch, the five dimples at the lead edge that indicated claws. The two prints were not footprints; they were _pawprints_ and he knew exactly what had laid them there.

            "Werewolves," he said, not bothering with the com.

            "Just one," Scott said. "Too big to be full wolf, and the betas leave human footprints when shifted. Looks like we're tailing that alpha Greg spotted last month."

            "Oh good," Stiles said cheerfully. "Just what I wanted- to be tailing a bloodthirsty alpha werewolf in six inches of mud in the rain and fog. Excellent."

            Jackson rolled his eyes and Scott slapped him in the chest. "Come on," Scott told him. "This is serious."

            "Dude, you really want to try to take on an _alpha_ with just the four of us?" Stiles asked. "What about the rest of the pack? They could be anywhere in this shit and we wouldn't see them until it's too late. You know there's at least three of them."

            "So that's your call?" Scott asked him in return. "Just going to let it go? What if it comes calling at camp? What if it catches your dad's scouting party?"

            Stiles clenched his jaw but managed not to roll his eyes. "Okay, yeah. We can't let it just... go. Whatever, okay, we'll go chase it down."

            Nodding, Scott turned away in the direction the footsteps faced. "I'll range ahead and see if I can't pick up the next set, give us a good direction."

            "Stay close," Stiles told the other two as Scott disappeared ahead of them. "Keep eyes out to either side in case it turned off course. Danny, hang back and radio Lydia. Let her know we found something."

            Danny nodded, dropping back and pulling a small radio from his belt. Jackson watched him for a second and then stepped sideways, fanning left away from Stiles. Ahead of them Scott was already out of sight and so Stiles moved to his right and kept his eyes to the soft, wet ground. Scott checked in to say the wolf was on course just as Danny passed Stiles on the left, following the center path Scott had taken.

            "Hey guys." Danny's voice crackled over the com. "I found blood."

            "Scott, did you see it too?" Stiles asked.

            Dead air greeted the team.

            Stiles' brow furrowed and he pressed his finger back to the com. "Scott. Did you hear Danny? Did you find blood?"

            An unearthly snarl rent the air and Stiles was running before he even had time to think about what they were running toward. Danny was behind him an instant later, leaping over a rotting tree with his gun already in hand. Scott's pained scream drowned out Jackson crashing through the forest to their left. Three gunshots rattled through the trees and Stiles was thankful because it meant Scott was still alive, still fighting.

            "Scott!" Stiles shouted. He could hear the sounds of the fight now, the snarls, Scott's cursing, the dull sound of impact after impact, of tearing fabric.

            Stiles burst into the clearing first, just in time to see the alpha werewolf peel away from Scott, dropping back. Its shoulder was seeping blood from a gunshot wound and it was glaring at Stiles with all its long, sharp teeth bared. Scott was prone on the ground, groaning and clutching at his side, Danny crouched beside him. But Scott was alive and that had to count for something.

           Before anyone could make a move, the clearing was suddenly full of werewolves, from across the clearing. Two of them, a dark-haired girl and a young boy, grabbed hold of the alpha, one arm each, and started dragging him out of view. Stiles shifted his gun to the younger wolves but his shot was interrupted by a bulkier, dark haired werewolf who was shouting something at him. Stiles couldn't focus over the sound of his heart thrumming in his ears but he could hear there was more shouting.

            "Hold your fire!" Stiles shouted as Jackson burst into the clearing. Danny was still crouched beside Scott, examining him, but Stiles could tell what had happened by the look on his face. Scott had been bitten.

            "Hold my- are you insane?" Jackson snapped, bringing his rifle up.

            "We don't kill humans!" the beta was shouting at him. Stiles trained his rifle on him and the guy held up one hand as if to stall him. " _We don't kill humans_!"

            A shot rang out through the clearing and Stiles whipped around to face Jackson, knocking his gun's barrel aside. "Jackson! Hold your damn fire!"

            "Why?" Jackson yelled back, bringing his rifle to aim again, Danny beside him now. "They hurt Scott!"

            Stiles batted at his rifle again, but Jackson dipped it away from him. "I swear to god, if you fire one more shot I will personally ensure you never see the field again!" He snarled before turning to face the werewolves again, meeting the dark haired beta's pale eyes.

            "Derek!" the young blonde girl at the beta's side was pleading, held back by his outstretched arm. "We can't let them get back to the others!"

            "No!" the beta, Derek, shouted back, eyes still locked on Stiles. "No, we don't kill humans, we don't! We just want to get my uncle away from here."

            "Stiles," Danny said from beside him, sounding much more collected than anyone else. "We can't let them leave."

            "Scott's been bitten?" Stiles demanded, needing to be sure. He had to repeat it to get a snapped 'yes' from Danny. "Then stand down," he ordered.

            "But-"

            "Get out of here," Stiles told the beta in front of him. "Do _not_ make me say it twice."

            "All right, okay," Derek agreed, both hands up in a placating gesture before he grabbed onto the sleeve of the burly beta snarling at his other side. The blonde was already standing down, backing away from the humans. "We're sorry. Thank you, we won't-"

            "Just get out of here!" Stiles snapped, taking a step forward.

            The wolves scattered as quickly as they were able while carting their injured leader. Jackson cursed in more colorful language than Stiles had heard in a long time as he covered their retreat with Danny. Dropping down beside his injured friend, Stiles peeled Scott's hand away from his hip. There was a lot of blood, enough to coat both his hands. The twin crescent bite wounds were jagged and oozing.

            "Why the fuck did you let them leave?" Jackson cussed as soon as the wolves were out of sight. "We had the whole pack there!"

            "And how do you think that would have ended, Jackson?" Stiles asked harshly. "Six of them against three of us?"

            "We could have at least taken their damn alpha!" Jackson snarled.

            "Yeah?" Stiles snapped. "How about you use your freaking head for a minute and think about why that would be a bad move."

            "We need him alive for Scott," Danny intoned levelly. Both Jackson and Stiles turned to look at him; even Scott looked up. Danny shrugged. "There's that rumor, you remember right? Kill the one that bit you, turn back human. If you'd killed that alpha, Scott'd be done for. No chance at becoming human again."

            Jackson let out a breath, frustrated because Danny was right and he hadn't even thought of that. He would have let their squad leader get turned permanently if Stiles hadn't been thinking.

            "Exactly," Stiles confirmed, turning back to Scott. "Now, we don't know that it'll work but... it's all we have."

            "We can't take him back to base," Danny pointed out before looking skyward. "And it's going to start raining again soon."

            "You radioed Lydia, right?" Stiles demanded of Danny, who nodded. "Okay, then. Look, they know we were hunting the alpha. You two go back, tell them you got separated from us and you came back like you're supposed to."

            "Coms?" Jackson reminded him, tapping the side of his helmet. Without any warning, Danny smashed the butt of his rifle into the side of Jackson's head where the button to his com was. Jackson dropped to the ground with a shout of pain, clutching at the side of his head. "What the hell, Danny?!"

            Danny shrugged as he peeled off his own helmet and tossed it to the ground beside Stiles and Scott. "We ran into the alpha. Your com got damaged. I lost my helmet."

            "How about next time I lose the helmet and you get the concussion?" Jackson growled, prying at the edges of his helmet until it came off. His ear was bleeding, but not badly. "Some best friend you are."

            "I hurt you because I care." Danny smiled smoothly. "Has to look real so you don't get in trouble."

            "Get a room," Stiles told them both as he helped Scott to his feet, draping one of his best friend's arms over his shoulder.

            Danny and Jackson both backed up to give them space. "Where are you taking him?" Danny asked, actually concerned.

            "I don't know," Stiles said. He twitched his shoulder and Scott let go of him, testing his ability to stand on his own. Though his leg was obviously sore where the alpha had lashed out at him, it was probably only bruised, not broken. "How far do you think you can walk?"

            "Ugh, walking... man, I think it broke my ribs. It was trying to get my gun," Scott informed them with a groan.

            "Smart dog," Stiles told him with a smile. "I'd try to get your gun too. You're lethal with that thing."

            Scott laughed but the noise deteriorated into a whimper of pain. "Dude, don't make me laugh."

            "You'll heal." Stiles regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. Of course Scott would heal but it would be a matter of hours rather than weeks when the bite began to work.

            "That's sort of the problem, isn't it?" Scott asked, trying to make light of it. Then he sighed heavily, shook his head. "I can't go back to camp. They'll kill me just for being bit."

            Eyes closed, Stiles ran one hand over his face, up over his buzzed hair as he let out a deep breath. "Look, I don't have answers, you don't have answers. There's really only one place that has answers. One group of people."

            "One pack," Danny surmised.

            "Yeah," Stiles confirmed. Scott was shaking his head before Stiles even opened his mouth.

            "No, Stiles," he said. "No way. We're not going to the _werewolves_. Are you crazy?"

            Jackson snorted. "Somehow I think the Hills pack isn't into adopting stray puppies," he pointed out sardonically.

            "He has a point," Danny conceded. "They might just kill you."

            A huff of laughter escaped Stiles. "I'll take 'might' over 'absolutely will' any day. Because that's what's waiting at base for him."

            Both Jackson and Danny heaved sighs because they all knew when Stiles got that tone there was really no convincing him of anything. "What do we tell Allison?" Danny asked, resigned. "You know she's going to _flip_ that we left you out here. She'll whip her dad into taking his squad out looking if your dad doesn't get to it first."

            "Just-" Stiles cut himself off and took a deep breath. "Just tell her whatever you have to, to keep her at the camp. Tell my dad I said that I lost my keys. He'll know what that means, he'll find a way to keep Chris at camp too. Just buy us _time_ okay?"

            "Yeah, okay," Jackson agreed, then smacked Danny's arm with the back of his hand. "Come on, let's go before this drizzle bullshit turns into a downpour. We'll see you two lunatics back home."

           Scott and Stiles watched the two of them disappear into the forest. When they were gone, Scott turned to face Stiles, gave him a concerned look. "Do you really think the werewolves will help me?"

            "Honestly, I don't know," Stiles admitted, looking over. Everything he had ever learned said they stood no chance, that werewolves would never help humans, and yet his mind still echoed with the words _we don't kill humans_. "But we have to try. I'm not letting you get away that easy. You're my best friend!"

            "I'm your only friend," Scott told him with an eyeroll.

            Stiles laughed. "Yeah, whatever. Come on, let's go throw you to the wolves."

 

* * *

 

            Morrell reached forward, clicking the stop button on the recorder, her dark eyes trained on Stiles. He gave her a questioning look, surprised to be interrupted. Their hour wasn't quite over yet. So far he hadn't lied, either, because this was all stuff they had probably learned. If nothing else, Allison would have told them this part.

            "You took your injured best friend to a den of werewolves rather than bring him back to base to be treated?" she asked incredulously.

            "Yeah, well, being 'treated' here would have meant a bullet to the skull," Stiles told her plainly.

            "You could have both been killed," she countered.

            "Lady, he was my best friend. My only real friend, okay?" Stiles shook his head like he couldn't even believe they were having this conversation. "That's just what you do. You take the chance. You try to save him." He looked down. "Even if all you do is go down with him, you have to try."

            The recorder whirred back to life.

 

* * *

 

            The house was not as inconspicuous as Stiles would have thought it should be, though it was farther out than he would have expected. It was an older manor, half of it caved in from the huge oak that had fallen into it during one of the storms the apocalypse had thrown their way. But the tracks very clearly lead to this house in particular. If they hadn't been half-dragging the wounded alpha, Stiles might never have happened upon it; certainly not in one of their routine safety sweeps. Squads only ranged up to 5 miles out in a day and very rarely stayed out overnight. The real nasty supernaturals hunted at night.

            Scott was flagging by the time they reached the place. He was having trouble breathing and Stiles could hear a wet noise in his lungs when he breathed in. The alpha had done more than just break a rib, of that much he was sure. He just hoped that Scott would turn fast enough to keep from dying of a punctured lung or something.

            As they approached the house, Stiles could hear shouting from within. A male and a female, punctuating their argument with beastly snarls. Stiles and Scott shared a look, neither of them really wanting to interrupt a werewolf brawl. Especially not after their earlier encounter.

            "Maybe we should come back," Scott suggested in jest. Stiles just rolled his eyes.

            The sharp knock Stiles gave the door when they reached it silenced everything inside the house. There was a small amount of shuffling and he caught the vague whisper of someone inside, shushed by an angry, hissed reprimand. He knocked again, three times, like police officers used to do when they dragged him home to his father, the sheriff. It sounded so much less official when he knew what was on the other side of the door.

            "We aren't going to hurt you," Stiles called out loudly. Scott shot him a sharp look, because they both knew they absolutely would hurt them if there was a chance they would survive it. "Come on, we need _help_. Please!"

            The handle turned and the door cracked open to reveal the dark beta Stiles had ordered off earlier. Derek, Stiles recalled. That's what the blonde had called him. He was glaring at Stiles, at the way Scott leaned against Stiles like he was going to pass out. Murmurs leaked out from behind the door and Stiles assumed the rest of the pack was laying in wait.

            "Your alpha bit my friend," Stiles told him by way of explanation. "I can't- we can't go back to base. They'll kill him."

            "Not my problem," Derek replied harshly. "Maybe if you hadn't been out trying to hunt us down like animals-"

            "Look, I'm sorry," Stiles interrupted. "But your alpha made this mess, so it's kind of your problem. You can't just say no."

            "I think I did just say no," Derek pointed out.

            Stiles made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Okay, I get it. Maybe you don't take charity cases. Fine. Name your price."

            "No," Derek refused.

            "Anything!" Stiles remarked hotly. "I can get you anything from our base. You want food? Medical supplies? Weapons? Whatever you want, I can bring it back for you, just... please. You gotta take him in. He's as good as dead if I bring him back. I can't do that to my best friend."

            For a moment it looked as if Derek would say no again, but someone behind him was whispering something Stiles couldn't hear and Derek appeared to be listening. His eyes tracked over Stiles, taking him in, _judging_ him. Then he opened the door just a little wider to look at Scott as well. When he looked back to Stiles, it was with guarded curiosity.

            "The bullets you used," he began. "They were wolfsbane laced."

            "Tipped, yeah," Stiles confirmed. "It's an Argent trick. There are other kinds, stuff you could use. Silver tipped. Wooden tipped. Victoria even carved devil's traps into some of the .9mm rounds."

            "I'm not interested in those," Derek told him flatly. "Do you have any of the ones you used? Right now. The wolfsbane ones."

            "Yeah. I mean, I'm not going to use them if that's what-"

            "Give them to me." He held out one hand, opening the door to do so. Stiles could see the others watching from behind him.

            Stiles swallowed because he didn't really want to be disarmed, but he shrugged his rifle off his shoulder and unloaded it, pulled the ammo container from his belt and passed it all to Derek. The werewolf passed it all to a woman behind him, the dark haired one who had arrived to the clearing first, and she disappeared into the recesses of the house.

            "Now get out of here," Derek ordered him, still glaring. "Before I rip your throat out. With my teeth."

            Stiles realized what was happening just in time to stick his boot in the door to keep it from closing. He winced, because it still squeezed tight for a moment, and then Derek was back in the doorway, still glaring. Stiles did his best to remain calm. "You're taking him in," he said firmly. "He is my best friend and I am _not_ letting him die like this. I am _not_ letting him get shot like a fucking rabid dog. You told me you don't kill humans!"

            "Stiles..." Scott said quietly from beside him, drawing Stiles' attention. He wasn't looking better.

            "Fine," Derek agreed before Scott could say anything else. He met Stiles' eyes when he looked back. "You want my price? You."

            "Me?" Stiles asked, confused.

            "You want him to stay here with us?" Derek asked. "The price is that you stay too. As collateral. I'm not sending you back so you can give away our location."

            "You were going to," Stiles told him. After all, Derek _had_ just ordered them out.

            "We were going to fix my uncle with your bullets and skip town," Derek countered. "We can't go anywhere with a new pup in mid-turn. So either you both leave or you both stay."

            "Forever?" Stiles asked, panic creeping in around the edges. He wouldn't even get to say goodbye to his father. Scott would be leaving Allison and his unborn child.

            "Just until the full moon," Derek said. "If he even survives it, we can show him how to control it once he's fully turned, and then you can leave."

            "That's three weeks," Stiles pointed out. "Base will come looking for us before then. His wife will come looking for him if I don't go back to stop her."

            Derek shrugged. "We'll figure that out when we get there. Do we have a deal or don't we?"

            Stiles looked over to Scott, who just shrugged helplessly. They were not going to get a better offer. This pack was their best shot at teaching Scott how to survive the change, how to control the werewolf side of himself. If they went back now, Scott would be killed and Stiles would be put on lockdown for not bringing him straight back, for not mercy-shooting him on the field the second he realized Scott had been bitten.

            If they stayed, however, Stiles had no guarantee they wouldn't kill him in his sleep here. They could betray him, kill them both. The team would never know what really happened and the wolves would be gone before anyone found this place. There was a good chance no one would ever find their bodies.

            But Stiles knew that Scott would do whatever it took to save him if their positions were reversed, and so he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

            "Okay," Stiles agreed for both of them. "We'll stay."

            Derek let out his breath and stepped aside, drawing open the door to allow them to enter. As Stiles stepped over the threshold at Scott's side, he knew there was no going back now.


	2. Chapter 2

            The inside of the house was not much better than the outside of the house. There were still leaves on the dusty hardwood floors, blown in through the crumbling opening of the weather-rotted damage caused by the huge fallen tree that had taken half the house with it. Some sort of ragged plastic sheet had been tacked to the ceiling between the two halves, cutting a lot of the draft from the January breeze that poured in through the damaged side of the house. Without electricity the house was still cold and damp. Stiles was glad for the comfort of Scott, warm at his shoulder, even if his friend looked like he might pass out at any moment.

            Both boys threw glances around at the werewolves gathered in the candle-lit front room, all of them watching as Derek allowed them into the den. There were three of them, all young, maybe late teens. Stiles recognized the blonde from earlier and gave her a nervous smile. She was the one calling that they should be killed; he would have to watch his back around her. He just wished Derek hadn't been able to find _all_ their weapons when he made them surrender them at the door.

            "Isaac," Derek called and one of the betas, the one with sort of wavy, curly hair, jumped at the tone. "You're on new-wolf duty while we sort this out. I'll keep an eye on the human."

            "We have names," Stiles pointed out sorely.

            "I don't really care," Derek told him without looking back, moving past the betas and toward a back room. "Keep up. In fact," Derek corrected himself, turning to face Stiles. "I don't want you out of my sight until I've figured out what I'm going to do with you, got it? If you get out of my sight, then when I find you, I kill you. Clear?"

            "Crystal," Stiles said, his stomach a cold pit of fear. The werewolf wasn't joking; he wouldn't even think twice about killing him here, despite what he had said earlier in the forest. Stiles was well-versed in combat, even hand-to-hand, but the idea of taking on a pack of surly werewolves with only his bare hands was not one he relished.

            Derek snorted and turned back, still stalking through the house as if the entire world had offended him. Stiles and Scott hurried to follow him but Isaac reached out and stopped Scott on his way past. "You're with me, hot shot."

            Stiles gave Scott a worried look, but his friend waved him off. "Go. I'll be fine."

            Though he hated to leave him, Stiles didn't want to start off on the wrong foot with the werewolves, especially not with the vicious beta who had just become his keeper. So he left Scott there and disappeared into the dimly-lit back room into which Derek had disappeared. It took his eyes a moment to adjust and he was surprised at what he found.

            The dark-haired girl from earlier was perched on the end of a very comfortable looking queen bed, the burly figure of the alpha stretched out before her. She was fiddling with the bullets that Stiles had given them and, from the looks of it, was trying to break one of them open. Considering the amount of force snapping a bullet would take, he wasn't sure how she thought she was going to do it.

            Before he could open his mouth to mention it, Derek reached over her shoulder, took the bullet from her, and cracked the wolfsbane shell in half. The contents collected in his palm and he held them out to her.

            She rolled her eyes at him and then plucked a lighter from where it rested beside her knee. Rather than take the wolfsbane powder from him, she lit it on fire in his hand. He grimaced as it scorched into his palm, flaring briefly before it went out. "Cute, Laura," he told her.

            "Just do it," she snarked back at him.

            Moving over to their alpha's side, Derek splayed his free hand over the alpha's shoulder, spreading the bullet wound open between his fingers. The alpha groaned, raising one hand to stop him, but Laura leaned forward and pinned his other shoulder to the bed. The two betas exchanged a glance and Derek took a deep breath.

            "Peter, it's Derek," he said loudly and the alpha's eyes opened to look at him. He looked like death warmed over, black lines spider webbing out from the wound, his skin ashen. Stiles knew some of how the wolfsbane worked; when the infection it caused reached their heart - and it did so quickly from a chest wound like this - the heart would seize and cease to beat. The alpha before them was done for and Stiles couldn't see how the burnt wolfsbane in Derek's palm was going to change that. "This is going to hurt, but you have to let me, okay?"

            Peter nodded blearily and Derek overturned his palm above the wound, making sure the ash covered it. Almost immediately Peter began to writhe, shouting hoarsely, the wound smoldering as though it had been set on fire as well. Stiles' eyes widened as he watched the black lines retract, watched the infection bead up on the surface of his skin as it leeched from the wound. Derek accepted the towel Laura passed to him and began to wipe it clean.

            A moment later, Peter lay still, chest heaving, but the wound was already closing up, knitting itself together even as Stiles watched. "Wow," Stiles breathed, then looked startled that he had spoken aloud. It drew everyone's attention to him, a fact which he instantly regretted when he saw the look of fury on the alpha's face.

            Only Derek and Laura's hands on Peter's shoulders stopped the alpha from surging up from the bed to kill him once he realized what Stiles was. Stiles scrambled backward toward the door, trying to prepare for a fight he would surely lose.

            "A human!" Peter snarled, lashing out at Derek and Laura both. They held firm, dodging the swipe and keeping him from leaving the bed. "You brought a _human_ into our den!"

            "Peter!" Laura shouted at him, slamming both hands into his chest. It did little to move the alpha, but it did catch his attention. "Peter calm the fuck down! He brought us the kid you bit!"

            That seemed to startle Peter for a moment and he turned to Laura instead. "He _what_?" Peter asked harshly. Realization seemed to dawn on him the moment the words were past his lips, however, because he turned to regard Stiles with a new, terrifying sort of calm, eyes narrowing. "Alive?"

            "Yeah," Derek confirmed. "Alive."

            Stiles wasn't exactly sure what was passing between the werewolves in that moment, but the weight of its importance was very nearly crushing. He did his level best to stay pressed up against the door frame, making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible, the only defense mechanism he had at the moment. It would really be the worst way to end his already terrible day, getting smeared across the floor by a pissed-off alpha werewolf.

            With a certain amount of chill calm, Peter brushed Derek and Laura's hands from his shoulders, leaning forward to get a better look at the human in his doorway. "What do they call you, boy?"

            "Stiles," Stiles answered immediately, somehow not choking on the fear crawling up his throat. They had always talked about hunting down something as big and bad as an alpha werewolf but he suddenly found himself acutely aware of how much power the creature before him really had and how powerless Stiles had been made. The thousand different ways this monster could kill him rested uncomfortably between them, making Stiles just a little dizzy.

            The wolf's nose wrinkled. "Odd," he commented before looking to Laura. "And I'm supposed to believe Stiles here didn't remove his co-worker from this plane of existence after he was bitten?"

            "Best friend," Stiles corrected before he could stop himself. Peter shifted his gaze back to Stiles, who swallowed thickly. "He- he's not my co-worker. He's my best friend."

            "You're aware your best friend is about to become one of the things your kind hunts?" Peter inquired, like it was the weather forecast.

            "Yes." Stiles could feel the hair on his arms standing up under that intense stare. "That's why we're here. If we went back, they'd kill him."

            This seemed to give Peter a moment of thought, staring hard at Stiles. Finally he raised an eyebrow and shook his head just a tiny bit. "Your people have policies about this sort of thing. Those policies say you should have killed him yourself."

            "Sir, no offense, but... those policies can eat me. There'll be a tag on my toe before I'd betray a friend like that," Stiles told him, mouth dry. He straightened a little, because this was one thing he was sure about; he would protect his friends to the bitter end. "Especially Scott."

            Both Derek and Laura looked from Stiles to Peter, obviously awaiting a decision. Derek had made the deal with Stiles and Scott but he was not the alpha in this situation. His word was not what Stiles would need to stay amongst the pack with Scott, not even what Stiles would need to survive the next five minutes. Stiles' life literally hung in the balance, awaiting Peter's decision.

            "You'd make a good wolf," Peter conceded at last and Stiles nearly choked on the laugh of relief that spilled from him. "Where is his friend?" he inquired of Derek.

            "With Isaac," Derek answered.

            "Fine," Peter acknowledged. "Laura, get Boyd and Erica to help you with dinner."

            Laura shot to her feet with a curse. "I completely forgot!" Then she tipped her head and Stiles thought he heard someone say something from a few rooms over. He jumped when Laura answered in a normal voice. "Thank you, Vernon."

            Werewolf hearing, Stiles wondered to himself. Documents at camp said it was amazing but he had never witnessed it first hand like that.

            "I assume you'll be staying for dinner at least," Peter said smoothly as Laura disappeared from the room, leaving the trio alone. The alpha was clambering to his feet, examining where the bullet hole had closed completely on his shoulder. There wasn't even any sign of a scar, no mark on his skin to indicate he had just very nearly died.

            "Uh," Stiles said intelligently, looking at Derek. No one had made mention of the deal Derek had put forth, so there was no way for Peter to know that the pack had been saddled with a human burden for the next few weeks.

            Derek stepped forward, putting himself between Peter and Stiles. "He's going to have to stay longer than that. We can't send him back alone as long as we're keeping the other one."

            "Oh, can't we?" Peter asked, recognizing the challenge in Derek's statement.

            Derek didn't back down. "No, we can't, Peter," he said firmly. He shook his head, eyes narrowing. "Are you even thinking about the pack anymore? Are you even _trying_? Whatever's gotten into you lately, it's like you've just... like you've given up," he finished, voice softening over the last few words. "You're going to get us killed."

            For a moment Peter glared at Derek, a storm in his eyes, but he glanced at the human soldier in the room and seemed to get hold of himself. "This is not a conversation we need to be having right now. The boy can stay the night," he said firmly. "We will discuss this later."

            Even Stiles could see it was on the tip of Derek's tongue to push whatever the issue was between them, but Derek merely took a deep, calming breath, and stepped aside, casting his gaze down. Submitting. Peter observed him for just a moment longer than necessary before turning his attention to Stiles.

            "I'm going to check on your friend. I suggest you come along," Peter said, making it clear that it was not, in fact, a suggestion at all and in no uncertain terms did Stiles have a choice in the matter. Stiles looked to Derek, which only seemed to irritate Peter. "Now."

            Stiles jumped and nodded. "Oh my god, yeah, go with you. I got it."

            Peter snorted and brushed past him, heading for the room where Scott had been taken. It was two doors down the hall on the left, past a bedroom that looked almost unused. Their arrival did not seem to startle Isaac, though Scott looked surprised to see them all invade the room at once. He had shucked his shirt and Isaac had him on his back on the bed, examining the bite with careful fingers. Both of them regarded the newcomers with silent stares.

            "Well?" Peter prompted.

            Shrugging one shoulder, Isaac motioned to the wound. "I give it another three to four hours before the healing really kicks in, but it _will_ kick in. He'll turn."

            "Wait, there was a chance he wouldn't turn?" Stiles asked from behind them. "Like, maybe he'd stay human?"

            "No," Peter said lightly. "But there's always a chance the bite will kill you instead. It would seem fortune is on your friend's side."

            "What!" both Stiles and Scott exclaimed. Scott was faster on the uptake. "What if it wasn't going to take?"

            "Well, then you wouldn't have been our problem for long," Peter told him with a smile. "How fortuitous that isn't the case. Isaac, get him cleaned up and join us for dinner."

            "What about me?" Stiles asked uncertainly. Derek had told him that he would watch over him, but it was clear that Peter was actually in charge. Stiles didn't want to find out the hard way that Derek's plans weren't going to work out.

            "You?" Peter echoed. "You're Derek's stray. He can keep an eye on you, I think."

 

* * *

 

 

            Stiles glanced up when Morrell reached across the table, pressing the stop button on the recording device again. "Something wrong?"

            She regarded him in silence and he could see her trying to organize what she wanted to say. Maybe she thought she would offend him. He didn't find it likely. "They spoke rather... flippantly about you and about your friend's life," she admitted finally. He could tell it bothered her.

            "Yeah," Stiles conceded, nodding. "Yeah, I mean, Peter did. He'd lost a lot by then. Maybe it was easier to deal with life if he just didn't get attached."

            "And the others?" she asked, meeting his golden-brown gaze.

            He rolled one shoulder, like it didn't really matter. "Lady, we were on opposite sides of a war. Six hours earlier we all would've killed each other without a fuss and now we're getting ready to sit down to dinner?" He huffed, the closest he'd come to a laugh in years. "Yeah, it was kind of fucked up. But none of us really had a choice right then."

            "And later?" she pressed.

            A strange little smile twitched the corner of Stiles' lip as he shook his head, because she just didn't understand at all. "Do you want to hear the story or not? You already know the ending."

            Pursing her lips, she pressed record.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dinner was not the _most_ awkward event of Stiles' life, but it did come fairly close. Isaac gave Scott a fresh change of clothes, as Scott's were torn to shreds beneath his body armor - a lot of good the stuff had done him against werewolf claws, Stiles noted. Then they had followed their assigned captors to the dining room where the blonde, Erica, and the last beta, whom Stiles assumed was Boyd, were setting the table. Stiles trailed to a stop in the doorway, staring with furrowed brows, because this was... normal. It looked so _normal_.

            Derek noticed he was lagging, and turned to look at him. "Going to join us?"

            "I- Yeah," Stiles said, shaking his head a little. "Yeah, I just... I dunno."

            "Not what you were expecting?" Peter asked as he took a seat at the head of the table. "We don't tend to eat our meat any more raw than you do, boys. Have a seat."

            Erica snorted at the suggestion but no one seemed to notice except Stiles. She had fixed him with a derisive stare and he could practically feel the weight of her judging him. Swallowing his discomfort, he moved into the room and slid into a seat as far as he could get from Peter without actually sitting in Derek's lap at the opposite head of the table. He knew he shouldn't feel _safer_ being close to Derek, but safety was quickly becoming a relative term. At least Derek wasn't actively considering his murder.

            Derek's eyes slid sideways to Stiles, just the briefest flicker before he picked up the scrap of fabric that was serving as a napkin and placed it on his lap. Stiles hurried to follow suit, acutely aware of Peter's gaze on him from the head of the table. He was relieved when the alpha's attention moved on, settling instead upon Scott, who had taken a seat across from Stiles. Lips ashen and skin pale, Scott still didn't look so hot and by the way he was holding himself, his ribs were still broken. If they found themselves having to fight, Scott would not be much help.

            "I don't think we've been formally introduced," Peter said, breaking the silence just as Laura and Boyd appeared from what Stiles guessed was the kitchen. "My name is Peter Hale."

            "Hale!" Scott very nearly squeaked, eyes widening as his gaze momentarily met Stiles' over the food that was being laid at the center of the table. " _You're_ the Hale alpha?"

            A pleased smile spread over Peter's lips. "I am. Heard of us, have you?"

            Neither Scott nor Stiles breathed a word, but Stiles could read Scott's thoughts in his dark eyes. Word didn't travel well in their ruined world, but it did travel. There were rumors that a pack of werewolves had once ruled over the Beacon Hills area, its remnants chased out by the stresses of the apocalypse. They had been well known amongst the supernaturals before the apocalypse though, kept the town clean of any threats so that the humans would not discover them.

            This was not enough to cause a stir on its own, of course. There were plenty of supernaturals stronger than a werewolf. Hell, some were stronger than a pack of werewolves. What had set the Hale pack apart was their relation to the Argents, the ruling hunters of Beacon Hills. When chaos and anarchy had reigned in the post-apocalyptic world, Gerard Argent had taken command of the area, kept the humans together. It had been his influence that had chased off the wolves, but he had lost his middle son in the process.

            His boy had been bitten by the Hale alpha.

            Gerard had put a bullet in his son's head himself.

            After that, the Hale alpha's pelt carried a hefty reward and yet he sat at the head of the dining table as if nothing at all were amiss.

            "Uh," Scott finally managed, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I guess. I'm Scott."

            "Scott," Peter repeated, rolling the sounds on his tongue. "Just Scott?"

            "To you," Scott replied, looking over with a glare.

            Peter just smiled as the rest of the group - _the pack_ , Stiles told himself - took their seats around the long dining room table. There were just enough seats. Stiles kept his hands folded in his lap, watching as the pack let Peter take first pick of the food before it began to make a circuit of the table. With his stomach still in such tight knots, Stiles took less food than he normally would have at camp, afraid of making himself sick.

            None of the betas seemed particularly inclined to begin conversation and once food was on his plate, Peter rapidly became absorbed in consuming it. Stiles caught him observing his pack from beneath his lashes as he ate, and he wondered exactly how much trust was actually here. Derek had seemed pretty okay with challenging Peter's authority, after all. He filed the information under 'possibly useful' - even though he had no idea what use it would even possibly be - and set about his food.

            After a while Stiles decided that wiggling his leg and pushing his food around his plate was not enough to sate his attention. The food was somewhat bland - not that he was complaining, the food at their base was _really_ bland - and the lack of conversation was gnawing at him, making him even more nervous to be there. So he blurted the first thing that came to mind, in an attempt to break the silence.

            "Is there any way to turn him back?" He nearly clamped his hand over his mouth after he said it, knuckles whitening as he grasped the fork in his hands much too tightly. "I mean, not that you aren't all stellar conversationalists and fine people, but Scott has a life to get back to, you know?"

            "Stiles!" Scott hissed, shooting him a glare full of daggers. "You can't just-"

            "What?" Stiles bit back under his breath, glaring back. "Dude, we have to ask!"

            "You want to know if you can change your friend back into a human?" Peter asked, drawing their attention.

            Stiles swallowed, throat suddenly closed. He tried to clear it, fumbled with his fork a moment before dropping it with a clatter that caused Scott to jump. "Y-Yeah," he stammered, then cleared his throat again. "The camp has a... a _rumor_ that if you can... if you-"

            "If you kill the one that turned you, you'll turn back?" Derek asked, stabbing at a piece of venison. He looked up, met Stiles' eyes and then Scott's. "No, that's a bullshit legend responsible for a lot of unwarranted deaths."

            When both the humans looked confused, Isaac stepped into the conversation. "A long time ago, when hunting supernatural things was... well, sort of normal, you know, like a couple hundred years ago, hunters started this legend that if you kill the wolf that bit you, it cures you. Sometimes people got bit, by an alpha or not, and people would turn around and hunt down the pack to try and cure it."

            "Genius, really," commented Peter from the head of the table, his cheek full of food. He looked up to find everyone looking back at him. "Well it was. The hunters didn't even have to try; whole villages were leaping to go mob our ancestors with pitchforks and torches."

            "Is that why you came here?" Boyd asked, not even looking up from his plate. The question held no malice, only sedate curiosity. "To kill Peter?"

            "No," Stiles said truthfully. All of the werewolves looked to him, listening to the steady beat of his heart with a bit of confusion. Stiles looked between all of them, wondering if he had done something wrong. "What?"

            "You're not lying," Erica said, unable to hide her disbelief.

            Stiles gave her a look. "Of course I'm not lying."

            "I think what Erica is so eloquently trying to say," Peter interjected, "is that we expected you to make an attempt on my life."

            Scott and Stiles shared a look. Both of them had known about the rumor, both had known that if the cure really was to kill the one that bit Scott that they absolutely would take action. Neither of them had really connected the dots, though, that it would mean attacking - and defeating - the alpha that sat so benignly at the head of the table. It had been a sort of abstract idea, just a possibility unconnected to the reality of the pack around them. If anything, it was an idea which involved stamping out a wild animal, a vicious monster. That they could do.

            Not this.

            Not a group of human forms, seated around an old oak dining table, eating off of actual plates with actual silverware. Not civilized, sentient beings. Not a _family_.

            "We didn't even know if it would help," Scott said at last, uncomfortable. "If it would work."

            "And now that you know it will not?" Peter asked idly, pausing with a forkful of wild mushrooms lifted just off his plate.

            Scott shrugged at the same time as Stiles. "The only cure waiting back home is a silver and wolfsbane bullet through the heart," Scott replied.

            "We're not your _last resort_ ," Erica snapped.

            "Erica," Derek reprimanded sharply. She scowled, turning her glare on him before looking away, lips pursed. He took a breath and let it out slowly, placing his silverware on either side of his plate. He had everyone's attention by the time he looked up to Peter. "We made a mess. We're going to clean it up. All of us. You all remember your turning phase. Scott has got a longer one than any of you, and he's going to need your help. Unlike you three, he didn't have a choice."

            "You had a choice?" Scott asked incredulously. "You _chose_ this?"

            Before Erica could open her mouth again, Isaac butted in, obviously trying to keep the affront out of his voice and not doing a very good job of it. "We were on our own, before," he told Scott. "I was thirteen when Derek found me, almost a year after the end. I was dying, starving. Half froze to death on the side of the highway, and Derek picked me up and brought me to the house the pack was staying at, and he and Laura and Peter saved me. When Peter offered me the bite, offered me a safe place to live, to share his family with me, of course I said yes."

            "But you..." Scott shook his head just a little. "You're not human anymore. You can't go back from that."

            "Who says I want to?" Isaac asked, tipping his head just a little, brows furrowed. He looked hurt. "You've lived amongst the humans. They treat you any better? You said it yourself, that they'd just as soon shoot you if you went back now. Do you feel like a monster? Do you think you deserve that? At least if I became human again, my family wouldn't turn on me."

            An awkward silence settled amongst the gathered until Stiles cleared his throat, his voice low. "He's got a point, Scott. What are you going to tell Allison?"

            "What do you mean, 'what am I going to tell her?'" Scott echoed. "The truth, of course."

            "You kind of can't," Stiles told him, as if it should be obvious. Scott gave him a questioning look and Stiles gave him a helpless shrug in return. "Think about who her grandfather is... who her _father_ is. I mean I know she loves you but... Dude, I'm not sure she'll be cool with this."

            Scott looked like he was going to be sick. "She has to be," he breathed. "I have to go back."

            "What if you _can't_?" Stiles asked softly.

            Scott shook his head, mouth working but no words coming out. Finally he just gave a little shrug of surrender. "I... I'd rather take that bullet than live without her. So, first I figure out how to control this, and then we cross that bridge when we get there."

            "Geezus. Okay," Stiles said, rubbing one hand over his buzzed hair, elbows on the table. "Okay, then. We'll sort it out."

            "Touching," Peter said dryly and both boys startled as they recalled where they were. Stiles smiled weakly.

            The dark-haired girl - Laura, Stiles thought - pushed away from the table, picking up her empty plate. She reached for Erica's plate next to hers and moved to head back to the kitchen without saying a word to any of them, lips pursed tight. Stiles wondered what was in there, as the house had no electricity to speak of, and certainly no running water. Though the humans had gotten the small Beacon Hills power plant running at a low capacity a year and a half ago, the power didn't extend past the edges of the camp, at least not yet. Certainly not this far.

            Curiosity got the better of him and he pushed away from the table as well, picking up his plate and taking Scott's from across the table. "I- I'll help with the dishes," he explained when he noticed all the wolves giving him the same strange look. Peter just shrugged. Either he didn't care or he figured Laura could take care of herself. Probably both, Stiles figured.

            The kitchen was oddly lit when Stiles reached it, and after a moment he realized it was because there was a fire burning where a stove had once been. The stove had not gone far, sitting unplugged and desolate at the far edge of the kitchen. Where it had resided, an alcove had been _broken_ into the ground from what Stiles could see, the pit framed by blackened, splintered floorboards. A ragged funnel to the outside directed the smoke through the wall to the outdoors. A steaming cast iron pot of some sort rested in the coals, the dark liquid inside bubbling gently.

            Laura watched him as he entered, eyes tracking up and down his form as he set the dishes on the counter. Nervous, he shifted from foot to foot before indicating the dishes and then the pot. "I want to help," he told her. "If that's okay."

            Her lips pursed for a moment and then she rolled one shoulder in a shrug. "You'll have to cool the water, then," she said.

            He watched as she crossed to the fire, lifted the pot from the coals with her bare hands and poured the steaming water into the plugged sink. It hissed as it hit the cool metal and she waved her blistered hand through the steam. Stiles watched wide-eyed as her skin healed and she looked sideways at him with a small half-smile. He wisely decided not to call her out on showing off for him.

            "I'll fetch the rest of the dishes," she told him. "Cold water is in that bin there." She indicated a large, plastic storage bin in front of the stove. "Try not to burn yourself. We don't have anything to treat you with."

            With that, she vanished from the kitchen and Stiles caught the sound of dishes and silverware clinking, chairs scraping as the group abandoned the table. He took a deep breath and then grabbed a clean bowl from the counter, dipped it into the bin, and carried it back to the sink. The water in the sink steamed as he added the colder water, and he quickly dipped a finger in to test the temperature. By the end of the bowl it was bearable, if still a touch too hot. He dumped the plates into the water and plucked up the dish rag hanging over the faucet.

            Silently, Laura returned and added more dishes in a pile beside the sink. She settled her hip against the counter to his right, taking clean dishes from him and wiping them dry with a towel that was, itself, questionably clean. It was awkward, he thought, but not bad. At least she didn't _seem_ to hate him, smiling softly at him any time he risked glancing over. Slowly he began to relax, to be comfortable in her presence, just in time to reach the end of the dishes. He passed her the last fork and wiped his hands dry on his pants.

            "Thank you," she told him with a polite smile. He nodded, returning the smile as she placed the fork on the pile of washed silverware. With a little tip of her head, she indicated he was free to go. "And, Stiles?" she added as he scooted toward the exit. He looked back, one hand reaching up to stop himself against the doorframe. "If you betray my family, I'll skin you. Alive. Good night."

            He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to ignore the way all of the hairs on his arms and neck rose at the threat. Absolutely she could, and she would- her tone left no doubts about that. He actually jumped when he felt Derek lay a hand on his shoulder. "Oh my god, don't sneak up on people like that!"

            "Scott will be bunking with Isaac for the night," Derek told him, ignoring the admonishment. "You're with me, where I can keep an eye on you."

            Sighing, Stiles followed Derek through the house, back to one of the rooms they had passed earlier. Derek lit a candle, probably more for Stiles' sake than because he couldn't see, and surveyed the room. As far as Stiles could see there was one messy little twin bed and not a lot of other space; the room looked like it was more for storage, or an office, than a bedroom. There wasn't even a closet, although a small writing desk was crammed into the corner. Derek shuffled Stiles into the room, passing him a pillow and a blanket from the bed.

            "You're on the floor until we figure out another arrangement," Derek told him.

            "Oh, but... there's a couch in the back room," Stiles pointed out, because he had seen it and it looked comfortable enough. He wondered if anyone else was using it as a bed. He wondered how many of the wolves slept in the beds of their pack mates. He tried to stop wondering why there was no one in Derek's before that thought got away from him.

            Derek's eyes were cold blue when he turned to look at him. "If I catch you out of, or leaving, this room without permission, I will kill you."

            "Well, that's really comforting," Stiles told him dryly. "I'll sleep well knowing you're so vigilant."

            Derek rolled his eyes and snuffed out the candle between his fingers. Moonlight streamed in through the window across the room, just enough for Stiles to see his silhouette as he stripped out of his shirt. Stiles clutched the pillow to his chest, attempting to ignore the way his heartbeat sped up watching Derek kick off his shoes. Derek's fingers paused at the button of his worn jeans, his head lifting slightly. When he looked over his shoulder at the human, Stiles practically fell over himself dropping to the floor and pretending he was very busy making a bed out of his one blanket.

            Snorting, Derek climbed into bed without taking off his pants, a fact for which Stiles was very grateful. He was equally grateful that the werewolf chose not to mention any peculiar scents he may or may not have discovered, or the speed at which Stiles' heart was beating. He just let Stiles make a little nest in the corner and attempt to sleep in peace.

            It was a while, however, before Stiles realized that sleep was not going to come to him. He was exhausted, bone-weary and sick of consciousness, but the buzz in his head would not leave. Over and over and over he replayed the events of the day. How innocently it had started, just a routine surveillance trip, three miles out and three miles back in a pattern. But they'd found those paw-prints and he'd let his best friend get bitten by a werewolf. Not just any werewolf, but the most-wanted werewolf of Gerard-Freaking-Argent, their overly vicious camp leader. Now he was here, prisoner of what appeared to be the first beta in the Hale pack, and he had no idea why he hadn't been chased off or killed.

            "Hey, Derek?" Stiles asked quietly, unable to let his doubts rest. He knew the werewolf could probably hear him if he just thought it loud enough. When he got no response, he sighed and sat up, bunching the blanket up around him. It was freezing in the house. "I know you're awake."

            "Go to sleep," Derek scolded, cranky.

            "It's cold," Stiles dismissed, pulling his legs up and leaning back against the wall. He shuffled the blanket up around his chin. "And I can't stop thinking that... I just- why are you keeping me? I mean, I know it's so I don't run back and give away your pack. But, you didn't have to let me live."

            "Neither did you," Derek replied. Stiles looked up as he shifted, pale eyes opening. The moonlight reflected white in his pupils. "I don't like to be in anyone's debt."

            "Oh," Stiles said softly, looking down. "I guess we're even then."

            Derek stared for a moment longer, and then closed his eyes, rolling onto his back. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

            "For what?" Stiles asked.

            "For what Peter did to your friend," Derek explained. "The bite is supposed to be a gift."

            "Some gift," Stiles remarked quietly. "Scott's got a family, you know. A wife. A kid on the way. His mom's probably worried sick. Your alpha gets in an accidental nip and it's all over for him. Can't go back now."

            "It shouldn't have happened," Derek agreed. "But it wasn't an accident."

            "What are you saying?" Stiles demanded, looking up.

            "I'm saying Peter knew what he was doing," Derek continued. He was obviously uncomfortable, his voice low and gravelly like he hated every word. "I'm saying he did it because he thought you'd kill your friend and there'd be one less hunter on our tails."

            Stiles let that sink in, the thought that he could possibly have even considered killing Scott, that someone was _depending_ on him being so closed off that he could murder a friend in cold blood. Of course, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it was the rule. He knew that if you got bit or infected by a supernatural _thing_ that could turn you - shape-shifters and vampires being high on the list - that your team mates were not supposed to hesitate. He knew, too, that anyone at base would expect that he would immediately destroy Scott to keep him from becoming a threat.

            But...

            "I couldn't," he murmured. "I never could have."

            "I know," Derek admitted. "The moment you let us go, I realized you would let him go, too. You're... different." His voice dropped on the last word, as if embarrassed he'd noticed.

            Stiles chuckled, because he'd been hearing _that_ his whole life. "Guess so."

            "Good night," Derek said, and Stiles could recognize an order when it was given.

 

* * *

 

 

            The quiet click of the recorder broke the silence after Stiles finished talking. Morrell checked the tiny timepiece on her wrist and nodded slowly. "We went over a little," she informed him. Their eyes met and she twitched a smile. "I'd love to go over by a lot, but I actually have to get to a meeting."

            Stiles nodded, accepting that she would be gone. He closed the leather journal, slid it across the table to her so that she could package it up again, take it away from him. It was just a tool to her, a means to an end. The years of Stiles' life written on its pages meant nothing to her, couldn't possibly mean the same as they did to him. It wasn't her mate that had written it, wasn't her soul bound up in the tidy script.

            Instead, she laid her hand on top of it and moved it back across the table until it rested against his knuckles. He looked up, surprised and wary, afraid to even hope.

            "Why don't you hang onto that, overnight?" she suggested, packing the rest of the material up into the folder, placing the recorder on top. "Might spark some memories to share. If you're up to it, I have a lot of free time tomorrow. We could continue."

            He gave a little shrug, knowing it wouldn't matter. If she wanted him here tomorrow, he would be here tomorrow. If he had to wait a week to try this again, he would wait a week. As long as he left the cuffs around his wrists, his schedule was what they told him it would be. He didn't mind; it wasn't like he had anything better to do.

            Sympathy scrawled across her features for a moment. "I could bring decent food," she offered. "Make it a lunch date."

            Slowly, he nodded. "Okay," he agreed, voice scratchy from talking for so long. "Thank you."

            As he watched her walk from the room, he hated himself for agreeing. The pack shouldn't belong to anyone, not even her, but the feel of Derek's journal clutched to his chest felt too good for him to really care. It was relief, embodied, to feel so close to Derek again, if even for such a short time, even so superficially. He knew he shouldn't thank her for it, but his gratitude was visceral, bone-deep, and he let himself have this because it had been so long since he'd felt anything but anger and loss.

            When the guard came to take him back to his room, he went quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

            _I don't even know where to begin about my day. Peter bit a BHC kid in a fight. He thought - we all thought - that his pack would kill him before he could turn. But they didn't, they brought him HERE. One of them did, anyway, and they want our help. Of all things, our_ help _. What do we do with that?_

_Peter doesn't seem to care what happens to them. Or us. I've separated the newcomers for him, for now. Isaac is caring for the pup, Scott; he worked Erica and_ _Vernon_ _both through their transformations so he should be okay with the new kid. I took the human in myself and I already regret it. His teeth chatter so loud Erica came in to tell me to shut him up- she didn't care how._

_So now he's in my bed where it's warm and it's going to reek of human by morning. Fantastic. I guess it's my own fault, for taking him prisoner in the first place. I should have just killed him. Should have just killed them both, and moved the pack like we've been planning. It would be better for everyone. Safer._

_Maybe Peter is right._

_Maybe I am getting soft._


	3. Chapter 3

            Blue-grey light suffused the room when Stiles woke, just enough for him to see the figure half-sprawled on the wooden chair beside the writing desk. He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes because it was Scott, because it was always Scott when it was way too early to be awake. The little huff of laughter Scott gave was almost enough to make Stiles forgive him for disturbing his dreams. They had been lovely dreams about being places that were not sequestered inside a den of werewolves. He missed them.

            "Feeling better?" Stiles asked, voice scratchy with sleep. He glanced over from beneath his arm.

            Shifting to turn his side to Stiles, he raised his borrowed shirt away from his hip. Beneath, the skin was smooth and unmarked, no sign of the bite the alpha had inflicted or of the bruises that had been forming on his ribs the day before. Stiles wanted to be glad for it, to see his friend whole again, but he knew what it meant. Scott really was turning and there was literally nothing he could do about it. He forced himself to smile anyway, because Scott was looking at him with expectation bright in his eyes.

            "You're going to need a superhero name, Wolverine," Stiles joked.

            Scott snorted. "Yeah, right. We can make a cape when I get back." He let the shirt drop back over his skin and put an elbow on the desk, resting his cheek on his fist. "Thanks for staying."

            "You woulda stayed for me," Stiles pointed out, shrugging it off as he sat up. It occurred to him that he was in a bed, not the floor, and he gave Scott a strange look. They were _alone_ in the room. "Where are the wolves?"

            "Most of them went hunting, I think," Scott informed him, motioning vaguely with his free hand. "Isaac is here watching us."

            "Can you... hear him?" Stiles asked tentatively. He wasn't sure how fast werewolf powers would progress.

            Tipping his head, Scott listened hard for a moment. "I can hear that... he's... not in this room."

            Stiles threw the pillow at him and Scott burst into peals of laughter. "Apparently becoming a werewolf hasn't improved your sense of humor," Stiles surmised, though he couldn't help but smile as well. Relief settled deep in his gut to see that his friend wasn't changing into something he didn't recognize. It was still Scott seated across the room from him.

            "It hasn't improved much of anything," Scott told him when his laughter had died away. "The healing is nice but I don't really... feel much different. Isaac says it takes longer the further a 'turnwolf' is from their first full moon."

            "So you... you might be pretty normal for a few days at least?" Stiles asked. "Like, maybe we could go back?"

            "To camp?" Scott wondered. "Not likely."

            "Why not?" Stiles demanded, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "It would be perfect if we could get back for just a day or two. We could bring the team out too, say that we're... say we're hunting the alpha. Pack for a week or more out. No one would miss us then, no one would come looking."

            "Yeah, and these guys?" Scott reminded him, motioning at the house around him. "Where do you think they'd be by the time we showed up again? They're already not keen on having us here."

            Stiles' shoulders dropped, because Scott was right, of course. Derek had made it clear that if it weren't for Scott and Stiles, the pack would have been on its way. If they left, even for a day, the werewolves might move on without them and they would be right to do so. "Okay, so what then? Jackson and Danny are only going to be able to keep them out of the woods for so long. I figure maybe two days, three tops. What then?"

            Scott rubbed his hand over his face, scrubbing at one eye tiredly. "I don't know, Stiles. I mean- Hey. Did they take your walkie?"

            After a brief head-tilt to determine the answer, Stiles slithered out of the bed and scooted over to where he had fallen asleep the previous night. What equipment hadn't been confiscated by the grouchy beta was in a pile that he quickly sorted through until he found the item. Triumphantly, he held up the battered, red walkie talkie like he'd found the holy grail.

            "Guess not! Why?" he asked as he passed it to Scott.

            With a twist of the knob, Scott turned the device off and passed it back. "Okay, so in a couple days we can turn that back on and get someone on the line. We just tell them we got chased pretty far off the reserve and we had to take shelter somewhere, but we're on our way back."

            "Great, so that buys us a day," Stiles reasoned, trying not to be too sarcastic.

            "Yeah, well it's a day we didn't have!" Scott snapped, getting testy.

            Sighing, Stiles buried the walkie talkie back in his equipment. "Look, I'm sorry," he apologized, not meeting Scott's eyes. He knew both of them were just stressed. He knew nothing they said or planned was going to change that, but snapping at each other wouldn't help either. "Okay, so we have three days to make nice with the mutts, and then we're S.O.L."

            "Pretty much," Scott sighed.

            "It helps when you don't call us mutts," came a voice from the doorway. Both boys jumped and Stiles practically fell over himself whipping around, his hand grasping for the knife at his belt that wasn't there anymore. Isaac smiled at them from the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. "We're not animals."

            "We didn't mean-"

            "I know what you meant," Isaac interrupted before Stiles could make any further excuses. "You've got a pretty terrible plan."

            Scott and Stiles exchanged glances. "You heard?" Scott asked.

            A smile curved Isaac's lips. "You'll learn how good werewolf hearing is soon enough."

            "We don't want to escape," Scott began. "It's the opposite! We have to let the camp know we're okay or they'll be out looking for us. They'll find your pack."

            "I know," Isaac agreed, nodding. "It's a really bad idea, us taking you in. Dangerous. Stupid. Likely to get us all killed, honestly."

            Both boys wore identical expressions of confusion. "But then... why?" Stiles managed first. "Why let Scott stay? Why make me stay?"

            Isaac shrugged, giving a little huff of helpless laughter. "Beats me. Peter and Derek have both lost their minds if you ask me."

            "Isaac... what would you do if we left?" Scott asked softly. "If we walked out right now?"

            "I'd let you," Isaac told them earnestly. "You're not prisoners. Well, you're not, Scott. Your friend is as long as you decide to stay here. Sorry, Stiles." He gave Stiles an apologetic look.

            Stiles twitched both hands in a way that said there was nothing any of them could do about that. "Hey, I made my choice," he said easily. It was just a simple statement, an acceptance of his fate. "I'd make it again."

 

 

* * *

 

 

            "Is that still true?" Morrell asked, interrupting the story. Stiles tilted his head, a habit he had picked up years ago. "Would you make the same choice again, knowing how it ends?"

            Stiles scrunched his face a little. "You mean would I put a bullet in Scott's head instead?" he asked. There wasn't malice in the question; he knew how humans thought and he had gotten past blaming them for it long ago. "Or are you asking if I'd walk away, knowing it would keep my pack safe?"

            "Either," she said, raising one shoulder in a little shrug. "Both. Aren't they the same thing?"

            "No," Stiles told her, picking at the sandwich in front of him. He hadn't had food this rich in a long time; freshly baked, coarse bread, soft goat cheese, and dry, thinly sliced meat that Stiles guessed was bear. Probably something that had wandered too close to the camp. He looked up, met her eyes. "If I'd betrayed Scott, I would have been the sort of person I couldn't live with being. If I'd walked away, I would have missed the years I got with them."

            She paused with a thick, baked chip grasped between two fingers. "Were they worth it? Those years?"

            "Every moment," Stiles answered without hesitation. "If I were going to change anything, it wouldn't be going with them."

            "It would be coming back," she guessed. His lips became a thin line and he dropped her gaze.

            "No," he murmured. "I had to come back. But they didn't."

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Stiles was sitting on the kitchen counter, his legs pulled up under him, a cookbook spread open on his lap when the pack returned. Their movement through the trees caught his eye and he looked up, craning his neck to see out of the kitchen window as they approached. Boyd and Erica were covered in blood and a young deer was slung over Boyd's shoulder like a towel at the gym. He peeled away from the others, heading around the side of the house with Erica trailing after him. Stiles closed the cookbook and set it on the counter before unfolding his legs and hopping down.

            "Scott!" Stiles called, heading for the front room. "Isaac, they're back!"

            Derek was first through the door, opening it much more roughly than was strictly necessary. Across the entrance room from Stiles, Isaac froze at the sight of him, eyes wide. Lacerations covered his right arm and side, deep and sticky with blood. One eye was swollen shut and he was favoring his left leg. Behind him trailed Peter, in better condition but worse disposition, his left arm clutched to his chest. Stiles couldn't be sure, but he thought it looked broken.

            "Wha- what _happened_?" Isaac breathed as the two trudged past. Derek halted in front of Scott, who had just arrived from Isaac's room in the back. Scott scrambled to get out of the way, eyes wide as he looked to Stiles in question.

            "Fight," Derek mumbled through clenched jaws.

            "With _what_?" Isaac exclaimed. "You two look like hell!"

            "Each other," Peter supplied helpfully. "Derek seems to think I can't lead the pack."

            "You can't!" Derek snarled, wincing when the movement jostled his injured jaw. "You've been doing a piss-poor job for months now."

            Swallowing, Isaac stepped forward to help Peter, but Derek stepped between them with a grimace. "Derek," Isaac chided.

            "He can suffer for a bit," Derek snapped, casting a glare in Peter's direction. Peter returned it with a snarl that was drown out by Derek's own. For a moment it was a stand-off that raised the hairs on Stiles' arms and neck, the sort that could break into a small war at any moment. Then Peter dropped his gaze, submitting, and Derek gave a breathy, irritated growl. "Get out of my sight."

            Without another word, Peter skirted around Derek and disappeared into the back of the house. Stiles and Scott exchanged another glance and then both looked to Isaac for some sort of cue, but Isaac was still staring wide-eyed at Derek, frozen. Wavering on his feet, Derek watched Peter until he was out of sight and then the fight seemed to drain out of him. Before he could hit his knees, both Isaac and Scott dashed forward, catching him as he collapsed. Isaac ducked under his arm, hefting him back to a more-or-less vertical state.

            "His room," Stiles suggested and Isaac nodded.

            They shuffled him through the house and into his room, dumping him on the bed. He groaned and managed to get himself into a sitting position, one hand splayed across the seeping wounds over his ribs. "You... still look like hell," Isaac commented again, drawing everyone's attention to the obvious; Derek's wounds were not getting better.

            "Why aren't you healing?" Stiles blurted out.

            "Alpha wounds," Derek said raggedly. He sat up a little straighter, snagged the lead edge of his shirt and began to pull before he winced. "I think my shoulder's out."

            "I can fix that!" Scott exclaimed. "I can patch up most of this, actually. My mom taught me a lot when I was younger and I've been learning with the camp's med team."

            Derek chased Scott's hands away from where they had begun picking at his shirt, at the wounds, and scowled. "It'll heal," he growled.

            "Before you bleed to death?" Scott asked dubiously. There was already a lot of dark blood coating his clothing, more seeping out from every rend in his hide. When Derek didn't answer, Scott turned to look at Isaac. "Is there any chance we could get clean, hot water and some cloths? Maybe a needle and thread if you can find it."

            Isaac's eyes flicked to Derek for permission, and though Derek rolled his eyes, he nodded his approval. Isaac disappeared from the room. Taking a deep breath, Derek straightened again. Both Scott and Stiles watched with rapt attention as his nails lengthened, turning into razor-sharp claws. Recoiling slightly, they watched as Derek slowly shredded what remained of the shirt, rather than try to take it off over his head.

            His skin was a mess and Stiles could see off-white, bloody bone peeking through the wounds over his ribs. Though the effect was miniscule, the skin was beginning to regenerate. It would probably be hours before even the shallowest of wounds would heal entirely. The deeper ones looked like they would take longer, maybe a day or two, if he didn't start healing faster. He looked to be focused entirely on drawing breath in and out and just staying conscious.

            "Why's it healing so slow?" Scott asked, looking up to Derek's eyes.

            "Wounds from an alpha heal slower," Derek ground out. "It's for dominance."

            "You can't pick many fights with your alpha if you can't heal faster than them," Stiles surmised. He shrugged when both of them looked his way. "Well you can't."

            Scott turned back to Derek. "So, what? You picked a fight with... uh..."

            "Peter," Stiles supplied.

            "You picked a fight with Peter out there?" Scott asked. "Why?"

            Derek's eyes flicked to Stiles for a heartbeat, then jerked back to Scott. "It's none of your business. It's over now."

            "Did you win?" Stiles asked, softly, not sure what he wanted the answer to be.

            "Barely," Derek answered, wincing as Scott picked at a loose flap of skin and drew fresh blood. "Watch it, kid."

            Scott snorted. "Kid, right. Like you're so old."

            "Older than you," Derek told him.

            "I bet you're not even thirty," Scott challenged. When Derek scowled, Scott smiled. To his credit, he did not push the issue.

            From the doorway, Isaac cleared his throat and everyone turned to look. He held up a mixing bowl of warm water and a handful of mostly clean dish towels. Stiles got to his feet to fetch them, toting them over to set beside Scott on the floor. Thanking him, Scott dipped one of the towels in the water and wrung it out partway, then set about the task of cleaning the skin around the wounds.

            "Thread?" Stiles prompted of Isaac, who was standing still watching. Isaac rolled his eyes, but he ducked back out of the room and a moment later Stiles could hear him rifling through the house a room over.

            They sat in silence while Scott cleaned, Stiles watching every swipe of the rapidly reddening rag over Derek's pale skin. The wounds looked much better in the dim lighting of the bedroom, with the grime of drying blood being washed away with every swipe of the cloth. There were only a couple left that, with his healing, could even use stitches.

            Derek hissed when Scott pressed a wet cloth to the edges of the worst of the wounds and Scott paused, looking up. He swallowed, suddenly seeming to realize his patient was actually an alpha werewolf, capable of tearing out his throat without even really trying. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not- I don't think I can fix that one. He _crushed_ your rib here."

            "I know," Derek gritted out between clenched teeth. "Got my leg as well."

            Scott and Stiles both leaned to the side in the exact same way to get a better look at Derek's left leg. His pant leg was soaked in blood, the fabric and flesh both shredded to ribbons. Stiles winced, but he tried to be optimistic. "At least he didn't get your achilles tendon, right? Would that heal, if he cut it?"

            "Yes," Derek replied. "Eventually."

            "Would it hurt?" Stiles asked, then looked taken aback. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. "I mean, healing. Does it hurt? Or do you have, like, built in painkillers?"

            "It hurts. A lot- especially for broken bones or severed tendons," Derek told him, holding out his arm for Scott to clean the bite wound near the elbow. Luckily, it didn't look like Peter had pulled out any chunks, just chomped down hard.

           "What if you lost an arm?" Stiles continued, suddenly curious. "For example," he added when Derek gave him a look. Stiles made a chopping motion against his own arm, as if Derek might not have understood the question.

            "I found thread," Isaac said as he stepped into the room, interrupting the awkward Q&A before Stiles managed to dig himself any deeper of a grave. "And a needle, but it's just a sewing needle."

            "No first aid kit?" Scott asked, accepting the needle and spool of thread as Isaac passed them off to him.

            Isaac shrugged. "Ah, not here. The house had been gone through when we got here. Humans took things useful to them."

            "Including any first aid equipment," Stiles concluded aloud. "That's the first thing we look for when we go on retrieval runs with the scouts."

            "There's uh... something else," Isaac said, shifting nervously when Derek looked up to him. "I went to check on Peter and- and I think he's gone."

            "You checked the rest of the house?" Derek asked, tipping his head to one side. It took Stiles a moment to realize that he was probably listening for Peter.

            "Of course," Isaac replied with a little nod. "I went around back to ask Boyd and Erica, but they didn't see him. Which means..."

            "Which means if he left, it was for the north," Derek finished.

            "Toward camp?" Stiles and Scott exclaimed together, then looked at one another. Stiles swallowed and gave one shoulder a shrug. They couldn't leave without Derek's permission now and even if they could, they couldn't warn the camp without giving away that they were fine.

            Derek shook his head. "I don't think he'd be that stupid," he said. "He's injured."

            "He'll heal faster than you," Stiles objected. "He could be healed by the time he gets there!"

            "He won't," Derek assured him, assured _both_ of them. "Some of the wounds, sure. But I hurt him after he surrendered too. Those won't heal for a long time. Days."

            "After?" Scott asked, a little horrified. "Like, you won and you still hurt him?"

            Derek scowled. "I had to," he explained. "If he had only beta wounds to fix, he'd have challenged me the second they were healed. The pack would be right back where we started. Isaac," he continued, switching modes. "Tell Erica and Boyd to look for a scent trail and then check the house over again. Make sure you check the damaged section too, I caught him sulking in there last week."

            With a nod, Isaac disappeared again. Derek looked down his arm at where Scott was stitching up the bite wound. "I'm almost done," Scott told him self-consciously.

            Though his lips pursed, Derek nodded. He kept his head tilted to one side, clearly listening to his pack as they moved. Stiles strained to hear, caught the click of the back door and the faint echo of voices as Isaac called out to the others. He watched as Scott sewed through Derek's skin, pushing together lacerations with the fingers of his free hand. It was fascinating, watching the wounds begin to knit together once the edges touched. They would have healed, Stiles knew, but with Scott's aid they looked like they would be healing faster.

            "There," Scott said, biting off the end of the thread. He sat back on his heels and looked up to Derek, who was inspecting the sewing job.

            "That... that's pretty good, actually," Derek admitted grudgingly. He met Scott's eyes and nodded a little. "Thanks."

            "Sure," Scott said, dumping the bloody towels into the water bowl and lifting it as he stood. "I'll just uh- I'll just put these in the kitchen."

            Stiles and Derek watched him go and then Derek began poking at his injuries. Blood seeped out of the smaller wounds and Stiles scrunched his face with a rough noise. "Gross," he said. "Quit touching it."

            "Don't tell me what to do," Derek snapped, but he stopped.

            "I wasn't, I was just... whatever," Stiles dismissed, holding up both hands in surrender. It was obviously not a good time to be pushing Derek about leadership, so Stiles changed the subject. "Why'd you do it?"

            "Do what?" Derek asked, not looking at him.

            "Challenge him," Stiles said and Derek froze. "You had to know you'd get hurt. You had to know he'd get hurt. You had to know there are going to be people looking for me and Scott. You could have left us if they showed up before but now... Peter's missing and you're hurt and... Do you even know where Laura is? She wasn't with you. Your pack's kind of a mess, more of a mess than if you'd left Peter alone until after the full moon. So... why?"

            Derek refused to meet his eyes. Stiles let him sit in silence, let him decide what he wanted to answer, because he wanted the truth. Finally Derek sighed, ran his good hand through his hair and gave his head a little shake. "I did it because he was going to come back and-" He looked to Stiles, then dropped his gaze back to the floor. "He was going to kill you. Kill you, leave Scott for your camp to find, and move the pack on like we'd been planning. And I couldn't let him do that."

            "It would have been safer for you guys," Stiles pointed out. His stomach had knotted up at how easily Derek spoke of his death, like it was just a bullet point in a strategy he was reciting, but he realized something important. Despite Derek's threats and posturing since Stiles' arrival, he would not have killed him. Would never have even hurt Stiles if he could help it. 

            Looking up, Derek met his eyes, gave a nod of grudging acceptance. "Probably," he agreed. "But it wouldn't have been right."

 

 

* * *

 

 

            "He saved you?" Morrell asked, tipping her head.

            "Yeah," Stiles confirmed, nodding slowly. "Scott too."

            "Why?" she pressed. "You'd only been there a day. Not even."

            Stiles frowned, because he asked the same questions once upon a time. The werewolves of lore were bloodthirsty, vicious beasts. They would have killed any human who crossed their path, even hunted them down to tear them to shreds. When his team went out, once upon a time, they had been certain they were destroying monsters, protecting families. Less than a day amongst a pack of werewolves, and Stiles had realized that they may have been protecting some families... but they may have been destroying others.

            "I know," he said at last, picking at his thumbnail. "I don't think he knew why he did it, either. Maybe he would have challenged Peter anyway. I mean, they were already at odds with each other when we turned up. Maybe we were just a good excuse. A catalyst. I don't know. But he did, and I'm thankful."

            She pursed her lips, clearly wanting more of an answer, but she simply nodded. "Okay. Fair enough. So Derek became an alpha, and Peter...?"

            Shrugging, Stiles sat up a little straighter. The rich food from their lunch was upsetting his stomach. Worth it, he thought. "The pack spent the rest of the day looking for the trail. Peter did his best to keep away from them; he covered his blood scent, he found a stream and walked in it for a couple miles. They had to turn back before dark."

            "Before dark? Why?" she asked. "They were werewolves, a whole pack of them, and hunting teams like yours kept the area clean of threats, didn't they?"

            "Sure, yeah," Stiles agreed with a shrug. "For three miles out, the area was ah... sterile, you could say. But the pack couldn't range safely into the camp's crosshairs, and, well, to be perfectly honest, there was a lot of bad shit in the wild. Things that never came near the camp, things that we didn't even have words for back then. When the apocalypse hit, yeah, the supers that hunted us, hunted humans, came out in the open. But so did the things that hunt supers. Things that made meals out of werewolves- even a whole pack of them."

            She drew back a little, sitting up straighter like maybe one of the creatures would suddenly appear in the room as Stiles' tone implied. "I see," she said. "I- I've never come across anything that bad."

            "We did," Stiles said solemnly, a heavy admission. "More than once."

            Nodding, she put her elbows back on the table, leaning closer to him. "So, carry on, then," she encouraged. "You asked Derek where Laura was. Was she okay? Was Derek all right?"

            Stiles let out a small noise that sounded remarkably like a chuckle at her absorption in his story. "Laura was fine, she'd just gone looking for non-meat foods. Derek, on the other hand..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Stiles stood in the darkened, empty kitchen, leaning against the granite counter as he watched out the small window behind the sink. The pack had returned hours earlier, empty handed and in a foul mood, reacting to Derek's emotions as if they transferred directly. Stiles and Scott had made themselves small, hiding out in Derek's bedroom together and talking quietly about whether this change in alphas changed their plans. Stiles didn't think so, Scott wasn't as sure.

            Stiles hated disagreeing with Scott.

            Though the rest of the pack had milled around the house for some time after they returned, Derek had crashed out early. Laura had assured them that this was okay, that his injuries had probably forced him into a regenerative trance. She had directed Boyd to finish butchering their kill and told them to start curing half of it because they were not going anywhere soon. Erica went to help him and Isaac stayed with Laura to sort what she had hauled back to the house from wherever she had gone.

            When all of them had finally retired, Isaac taking Scott from Derek's room at the last moment, Stiles was left alone with an unconscious and injured werewolf alpha. For a while, Stiles had sat against the wall, watching the rise and fall of Derek's chest and thinking about everything that Derek's mutiny would mean for them. But his legs had started cramping and it was freezing in the room still and it wasn't like Derek would wake up in time to find him gone.

            So he had gotten up, fluffing out his blanket and laying it over Derek before he left. At first he had just been stretching his legs, wandering around the house in the dark. He had seen Boyd and Erica curled up together on the biggest, fluffiest couch before he actually walked into the room, so he was able to keep from waking them. He hadn't come across Laura and assumed she was behind one of the closed bedroom doors. With nowhere else to meander, Stiles had headed for the kitchen to get a glass of warm water to hold and possibly return feeling to his fingers.

            The coals for the kitchen fire were still glowing and he had moved a little bit of wood onto them, stoked it with the iron poker resting against the stove until he had a nice little fire. He was tired, exhausted really, and had sat down in front of the little fire, holding his hands out over the heat as his eyelids drooped.

            When he woke, he was actually a little startled that he hadn't fallen face-first into the coals and gotten the house set on fire. He scrubbed at his eyes and traced a finger over the imprint the kitchen cupboard had left from where his forehead rested against it. Darkness still blanketed the world outside the window but pale grey had begun to lift it and the fire had burned to coals once more. Stiles sighed and put the kettle atop the embers like he had planned hours ago, then clambered to his feet.

            As he was shaking out the pins-and-needles feeling in his legs, he froze. Cocking his head, he listened closely until he heard it again.

            "Sti~les...."

            He swallowed, looking over to the window. The voice was outside, hauntingly familiar. It was Scott's voice filtering in through the fire's vent, the one that led to the outside. Stiles couldn't fathom why Scott would be outside, or how he had gotten past Isaac to get there, but he sounded distressed and he was calling for Stiles.

            "Stiles.... Stiles!"

            The name turned frantic, pained, and Stiles took off for the front door without another thought. He skirted around the dining room table, rounded the corner and had his hand on the knob of the front door before another voice halted him.

            "It's not Scott," Derek said from somewhere behind him.

            "What?" Stiles asked, hesitating with the knob turned, gripped in a white-knuckled grasp. He looked over his shoulder to see Derek leaning haggardly against the doorframe of the dining room.

            "Scott's asleep," Derek told him, raising his nose a little. "In Isaac's bed if I'm not mistaken. I can hear their heartbeats."

            "But- I can-" Stiles shook his head, let the knob go before turning to face Derek. He took a deep breath and let reason set in before he continued. "I can hear Scott calling," Stiles told him reasonably. "If it's not him... what can do that?"

            A slow smile spread over Derek's lips and he pushed away from the door frame, pulling a chair out from the dining room table. "It's a crocotta," he explained as he sunk down gingerly into the seat. "A canid super, kind of a- a hyena on steroids. They hang around a place or follow travelers and learn their names. Then they mimic a human voice calling out the name, to draw you away from your home or your group; away from safety."

            Stiles looked sick, because he had almost walked out of the house and into the jaws of such a creature. "Then they kill you?"

            "Slowly," Derek confirmed. "They like to eat bits while you're still alive and screaming. Not something you want to meet alone at night."

            "You've been saving me an awful lot lately," Stiles told him, stepping hesitantly into the dining room. He smoothed his hands over the back of one of the big, old chairs, feeling the grain of the wood.

            "Maybe stop getting yourself into trouble," Derek suggested, shifting to get more comfortable. He looked like he might still be in pain.

            Stiles laughed, but quietly so they wouldn't get caught. "Yeah, that's unlikely. It follows me around like a grim on a trail. You should have let me leave yesterday. Maybe you wouldn't be beat to hell if it was just Scott."

            "Maybe," Derek agreed. "It was really only a matter of time, I think. I'd have gotten hurt with or without you. Scott got me patched up quicker than if you two hadn't been here."

            "How's that going?" Stiles asked, motioning to Derek's injuries. "Laura said you were in a coma or something, to heal better."

            Derek reached down, pulled up the side of his shirt to reveal the worst of the injuries. Though Stiles could still see pale bone in the moonlight, the wound was closing around it now and there wasn't fresh blood. Stiles nodded and Derek dropped the garment back over the injury. Scrubbing a hand over his buzzed hair, Stiles scooted around the edge of the chair and took a seat in it.

            "You know, I think I've heard of a crocotta before," he said softly, folding his arms on the table. "Maybe not around here, but sometime. Isn't it an African legend, though? Like, aren't they supposed to live there?"

            "Yeah," Derek said, nodding. "They aren't naturally from here."

            "Are they supernaturally here?" Stiles asked, putting his chin on his arms.

            Leaning back in the chair, Derek shrugged. "Don't know. Seen a lot of things around in the last few years that have no business being around, at least not here. Guess the apocalypse really screwed things up for everyone."

            "You think supers got... what, transplanted?" Stiles guessed.

            "Transplanted, sure," Derek agreed. "Summoned. Shifted inter-dimensionally, maybe. Awoken, in some cases." Stiles raised an eyebrow and Derek smiled. "East of here, in the mountains- I take it you've never been there?"

            Without lifting it, Stiles shook his head, his voice distorted from the way his throat was stretched. "What's out there?"

            "Dragons," Derek told him. "The nasty, western ones. That's why you don't see many people from east of there coming out this way. The mountains were hazardous enough when they were just terrain."

            "You've been through them?" Stiles wondered aloud. He'd heard stories about dragons, but never from direct survivors of encounters with them.

            "Twice, actually." Derek smiled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "We crossed over just after the apocalypse started, to get away from the hunters on our asses. Peter bit one of them and they slowed down to deal with it. Then we spent almost five years roaming what's left of the world east of here."

            "What _is_ left of it?" Stiles echoed. Communication post-apocalypse was almost dead and Derek was right; the number of people from beyond the mountains that had arrived to Beacon Hills Camp could be counted on his fingers. Most of them had come from just over the mountains, hoping to find California had been protected from the destruction.

            "More than you'd think, less than you'd hope. The end was... supernaturally intense in some places. Rifts opening where they shouldn't. Creatures appearing where they'd never been. The east coast up to the Smokies is underwater," Derek explained. "Ah, there's a- a chasm splitting a good portion of the northern US away. You can still get to Idaho and Minnesota around the edges, but you can't cross to anything in between without going around first."

            "Can't go to the bottom?" Stiles asked.

            "Don't know," Derek said with a shrug. "Can't see the bottom and even if you got there, how'd you get back to the top?"

            "Fair enough, I dunno," Stiles agreed. "And Peter, he led you guys through all of that safely? I mean, for someone as... unstable as you made him sound, that seems like a pretty big feat."

            Sighing, Derek looked down. "He wasn't always unstable," he explained. "Back when all of this started, when hunters nabbed my parents and most of the pack got eaten up by misfortune in the face of all the destruction and insanity... Peter saved us, my sister and me."

            "You lost a lot of family?" Stiles asked softly.

            "Everyone lost a lot of family in those first few months," Derek replied. My parents were killed, and my little sister went missing. Peter lost his mate, his two little boys. We almost lost Laura in the attack that got her little girl and her mate. But whose story doesn't have loss, at this point?"

            "Mine," Stiles said, and Derek looked up to him. "I lost my mom before the end. It was just me and my dad, and," he shrugged one shoulder. "Well, we both made it."

            "No friends?" Derek asked.

            "Before Scott?" Stiles laughed, but it was sharp and barbed full of hurt. "I was kind of an outcast. I was that kid that had panic attacks about his dead mom, the one who played too many video games and couldn't find common ground with anyone."

            "And then Scott," Derek concluded.

            "And then Scott," Stiles agreed. "He found me and my dad wandering the woods near the camp and brought us in. He was kind of weird too, but the right kind, you know? The kind I could be friends with, the kind I could trust."

            Derek hummed a note of agreement, rubbed absently at his ribcage with a look of discomfort. Outside, the faint notes of Stiles' name echoed through the darkness, followed by Derek's name and a soft, eerie cackle. Both boys looked toward the boarded front window, but there was nothing to be seen through the slats of wood.

            "That's not intensely creepy at all," Stiles commented quietly. Derek chuckled.

            "It sounded like Peter," he observed.

            "It's not, right?" Stiles asked, a little worried. "It's just your- your hyena thing. Crocotta."

            "Yeah," Derek confirmed. "It knows Laura and Erica's voices too. It's been hanging around for a few days now. Peter said he was waiting until it left to move out, so that it wouldn't track us."

            "And then we showed up," Stiles commented softly. Derek just shrugged, because there was nothing either of them could do about that now, and they both knew it. "Where do you suppose he's gone, anyway? Peter, that is."

            "Hopefully not far." Derek sighed and stopped picking at his ribs. "Realistically? He's free now. He doesn't have to lead us, doesn't have to be responsible for us. I think that's what he wanted. Whatever he's doing, he couldn't do it with us around his ankle."

            "Do you think he'll go for the camp?" Stiles didn't want to ask the question, didn't really want to hear the answer. There wasn't anywhere else that Peter would be going, but he had to hear it.

            But Derek just shrugged. "Maybe. That's a awfully large target for one injured beta. My guess is that if he _is_ heading that way, he'll realize it's a bad idea before he actually gets in trouble. He's probably just out running."

            "You think he'll be back?"

            "I think he'll find us when he's ready to find us," Derek told him. "Maybe it'll be here, maybe it'll be down the road sometime. He hasn't had a chance to run free for a long time, and I think he needs it. I just hope he doesn't do anything stupid."

            "Like attack the camp," Stiles suggested.

            "Yeah," Derek agreed. He shook his head slowly before clambering to his feet. Though he turned in the direction of his bedroom, he hesitated. "He wasn't always like this," he told Stiles again. It was almost defensive.

            "It changed people," Stiles offered. "The apocalypse. I get it."

            Derek nodded, accepting that for what it was. "It changed the pack."

            "It's changed everyone," Stiles said with a small smile. "But, you know, not all change is bad. Sometimes it makes us stronger."

            For a moment, Derek considered that, just staring silently at Stiles until the human was slightly uncomfortable. Finally he let out his breath and the ghost of a smile twitched over his lips. "Your water is boiling," he told Stiles. "Don't stay up too late."

            "What happened to 'leave my room and I'll kill you?'" Stiles teased, hiding his own smile.

            With a little shrug, Derek turned away again. "You're welcome to try your chances with the crocotta," he suggested, then disappeared into the darkened hallway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            She gave him a soft smile when he paused in his storytelling to pick at the crumbs on the plate before him. "I take it Peter didn't make it back," she offered after a moment, as if maybe he'd forgotten why they were there.

            "No," Stiles confirmed. "He really didn't."

            "This would have been... what, a few weeks before you left?" she queried, picking up the folder in front of her.

            Stiles knew that it was full of history, _his_ history to be precise, but he had never actually read through any of it. He didn't need to- he knew his history, after all. But watching her sift through the papers, covered in the handwriting of someone he knew, someone that had taken his accounts during debriefing once upon a time, he wondered what the camp thought of his actions, of his past. What had they guessed about him, after he'd stopped talking?

            "Close, I think," Stiles corrected, stretching his neck just a little to read the words on the page. They were upside down, but Stiles had done enough reading in his life that it didn't matter. "It was..." His eyes rolled to the side, counting as he tried to remember. "Three weeks to the new moon, and we left just before that, so yeah. Why?"

            "Oh, it just- it coincides with the alpha attacks that happened around that time," she pointed out. "Those were Peter?"

            "Well, they were Peter, but he wasn't an alpha anymore," Stiles corrected again. "We found out it was kind of the reason he was here, why he came back to Beacon Hills. His family used to live here, before... well. Gerard killed them, or at least most of them. Peter never got to avenge them, because the apocalypse hit right after, and then everyone was so busy surviving, and then he couldn't-" He halted abruptly, because he wasn't sure she needed to hear any of this. It was all ancient history in relation to what she'd come here asking after.

            "It's okay," she assured him. "You can talk about anything you need to, to tell your story."

            Somehow Stiles doubted that was true, but he shrugged one shoulder. "Peter wasn't a bad guy. I mean, he did bad things, but I think the stress just- just ate him up. Derek had a theory that Peter started turning betas, started searching out people who were alone on the road to turn, so that he had something to do to keep his mind off of the loss. But... by the time Scott and I turned up, Derek and Laura had a pack. I mean, they had a pack before, but, this was the sort of pack that could survive without Peter. That's what Derek thought maybe he'd been doing all along- making sure that Derek and Laura could make it if Peter left to come back here. He was taking care of them so they'd be okay if he..."

            When he trailed off, she nodded slowly. "He wanted them safe, in case he lost."

           "Yeah," Stiles said, his voice edging up at the memory. Peter had always made him nervous, even when he did return, but that didn't mean he hadn't been a part of the pack. It didn't mean Stiles didn't miss him, too.

            "He... made quite the impression," she said carefully.

            A strangled, incredulous laugh escaped Stiles. "We- heh, okay, _impression_ is not the word I'd use for two slaughtered scouting groups and a handful of other murders, first of all," he told her with a strange smile. "They were good people. I knew two of them."

            "I'm sorry," she responded, in the fashion that people do when they hadn't been expecting to offend someone. The sort of tone that said she wasn't really sorry, and they both knew it.

            "It was a long time ago," Stiles dismissed, looking down. "And I'm sure you read about it."

            "Yes, extensively. Your camp keeps very good records about the supers it encounters and what damage they do," she told him, looking down to sift through the pages in the folder again. She missed the tilt of Stiles' head, the narrowing of his eyes.

            "The," he said, without inflection.

            "Pardon?" she inquired, looking up to find him staring at her with furrowed brows.

            " _The_ camp," he stressed, watching her closely.

            "Yes?" she agreed, not following.

            "You said _your_ camp," Stiles said slowly, watched the panic flicker in her eyes, and he knew. His eyes narrowed dangerously now. "You're not from this camp."

            She swallowed thickly and he could see the debate the moment before she shook her head. "No, I'm not," she conceded at last. "I arrived about a month ago with an... let's say an _interested party_."

            Stiles took a slow, deep breath and released it just as slowly before shaking his head. "I think we're done here."

            "Stiles..."

            "No," he told her sharply, slapping the table with the flat of one hand, enjoying the little jump she gave. Wherever she was from, it was sheltered. Interesting. "You lied to me. You were going to keep lying to me. So no. We're done here."

            He knew that his refusal to continue would cost him. He knew the journal that lay on the table between them would be taken away with her when she left this time. That he would go back to his locked room in the belly of the old hospital, and Harris would come back next week and maybe that would be the end of it for Stiles. Maybe this woman had a point, when she asked if Stiles was tired of solitary.

            Maybe he was.

            But she just let out her breath, nodded in acceptance, and scooped up the documentation, sliding it into her folder before pressing the stop button on the recorder. She slipped out of the chair, clambering to her feet with resignation. "Okay," she murmured, soft and understanding and something within Stiles constricted. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. It was not my intention to hurt you, Stiles. You've had quite enough of that."

            Stiles couldn't drag his eyes away from the table, from the hard plastic cuffs encasing his wrists. When he failed to answer, she tapped the folder on the desk, looked him over once more, and then turned and left. The door clicked heavily shut behind her and a moment later opened again, the guard that had been just outside the door entering. Stiles closed his eyes, listened to the man's boots on the metal floor, sighing when he felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder.

            "Come on," said the man. It wasn't an order, just a gentle encouragement.

            Sliding his cuffs off the edge of the table, Stiles leaned back so that the man could unlock them from the floor. He didn't resist when the man laid a hand on his elbow and got him to his feet, nor did he object when the man picked up Derek's journal in one rough hand. He just silently accepted the gift, clutching it to his chest as he was led out of the room in the opposite direction as the woman. The halls were dark but familiar, a maze Stiles could have navigated with his eyes closed.

            They reached his room a few moments later and the man fumbled for his keys in the dark. Stiles could have made it easier, but he just stood there instead, shoulders drawn forward just slightly, protectively, until the door swung open. Then the man stepped to the side, allowing Stiles entrance with a sweep of one arm, presenting the makeshift cell to him, his smile laced with regret.

            Stiles took a breath, held it for a moment, and then stepped into the doorway. His golden-brown gaze tracked up as he stepped into the room, settling upon the dark figure seated on the edge of his bed. He let out the breath in a rush, eyes closing as he stepped into the room. The door swung shut behind him, the lock clicking into place from the outside. Stiles listened to his keeper pace heavily away, out of earshot, before he looked up again.

            Pale eyes met his, and his heart gave a little twist.

            "Hello, Derek."


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

          

            "Hello, Derek," Stiles greeted dully, turning away from the open space on the bed beside the wolf. He let his back hit the wall in the corner of the small room, sliding down it until he had a shoulder to each wall. He didn't bother to stretch out his legs, tucking the journal into the warm cavity created between his chest and thighs. With a sigh, he folded his arms over his knees and put his head down on them.

            "They let you keep my journal," Derek stated softly.

            "Yeah," Stiles mumbled, not looking up. He hated that tone, the way Derek wouldn't accuse him of anything, leaving it to Stiles' own guilt to gnaw on his conscience. He wasn't up to it today. It was just too much.

            "Because you told them," Derek continued. It was almost a plea, and Stiles wished he could shut it out. He wished covering his ears did anything to help. "Why are you telling them, Stiles? You said you wouldn't. You promised."

            "I know," croaked Stiles, throat tightening on the words. He didn't need this right now, not after trawling through memories, opening old scars. "I know, okay? Please just... don't. Not today."

            He thought that might be the end of it, by the way silence wreathed around him like a haze. Closing his eyes, he tried to force himself to relax, to just breath in the comforting scent of the old leather journal in his lap. To let go of everything he had dredged up today for the scheming woman, of every betrayal of his oath to never tell a human about his pack. It hurt, old wounds picked open anew, and he just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to close his eyes and set his mind on autopilot to nowhere and forget.

            "Haven't they taken enough?" Derek asked quietly. It seemed so loud in the tiny room, even when he didn't raise his voice. It didn't echo like Stiles' voice, and that was the only way Stiles could tell the difference some days.

            Stiles groaned and unfolded his arms, covered his ears with his forearms. "Derek, please..."

            "Do you have to give them our past, too?" Derek insisted.

            "I'm not," Stiles argued, voice climbing in distress. He hated this Derek. He hated the soft, injured tone, the accusations laced into words that sounded tired and pitiful. Derek never sounded like that before. "I'm not going to talk to her anymore. I'm done."

            "She doesn't think so," Derek told him, and it seemed so reasonable that Stiles believed him. He didn't want to, but he did, and it left something cold and heavy in his gut to think that he would talk to the woman upstairs again. "She let you keep the journal. She's going to bring you back up there. Are you going to tell her the rest? Give up everything else?"

            "No," Stiles swore, barely a breath, like maybe it wouldn't be a lie if he just said it quietly enough. If he threw his heart into believing it. "You're safe, Derek. They can't get you anymore. So, please..."

            "Stiles," Derek called softly, and Stiles curled up tighter on himself. He didn't have to look up to see the frown, the regret in Derek's pale eyes.

            "Please, just leave me alone, Derek," Stiles pleaded, voice cracking. "I can't do this right now. Not today." He hated repeating himself, knew it made him sound crazy, but sometimes it was the only way.

            The silence that followed was heavy and absolute this time and Stiles let himself count to ten before lifting his head. Derek was gone, no sign left that he had ever been in the room. Stiles' shoulders sagged, though he wasn't sure if it was from relief or disappointment. Sometimes he hoped that there would be a sign, that there would be so much as a wrinkle in his bed sheets, a boot scuff on the dimpled floor. Anything.

            He knew it was impossible.

            Derek couldn't leave traces of himself in places he'd never really been.

            Stiles swallowed against the lump in his throat, palming away the wetness at the edge of his eyes, and rested his forehead back upon his forearms.

 

* * *

 

            Morrell let the door click shut behind her, eyes sweeping up from the floor to the woman leaning against the doorframe across the room. Short, blonde hair, amber-brown eyes, and a smile like a shark closing on a blood trail. When she tipped her head in question, Morrell shook her head in response, surrendering, frustrated, and the woman twitched her a brief smile. "It's okay," the woman said, straightening and crossing to meet Morrell halfway.

            "How long have you been standing here?" Morrell asked.

            "Not long. Just long enough to see you crash and burn," she teased, holding out a hand and twitching her fingers in a _gimme_ motion. "How was it going before that?"

            "Honestly?" Morrell asked, passing over the documents in her hands, sliding the recorder off the top of them. "The guy's a mess, Jane. He's holding it together, but I can't tell you how. He trails off randomly, staring into space. He veers off topic mid-sentence to start talking to himself. I've lost track of how many times I've had to steer him back to the story. Then there's moments where he's just... crystal-clear lucid. I'm beginning to think those are the worst, when you know he remembers everything."

            Jane shook her head, sighing as she began to thumb through the documents. Of course she already knew what all of them were; she'd been responsible for obtaining most of them for Morrell to use. She was looking for what Morrell scribbled while Stiles spoke,  notes about his movements, notes reminding her what to look into next, what to ask him when she saw him again.

            "I'm not surprised, if what we've heard is anywhere close to the truth," Jane said, slipping a yellowed piece of paper from the middle of the stack. The blue lines had faded nearly to white, but Morrell's handwriting was crisp and stark, fresh from the last session.

            "Are you having any better luck?" Morrell asked, not quite daring to hope.

            Jane ran a hand through her short cropped hair and gave a little head shake. "Not particularly. The girl's not talking at all yet, and their council is still deciding if they're going to let us see their records or not."

            "And if they don't?" Though she didn't want to ask, Marin knew that it was a real possibility that they would only have the two prisoners. It didn't look to be particularly promising from what they had seen so far, although she was managing a lot better than it seemed Jane was. "We need them, and these people aren't going to just let us walk out of here with them. If no one wants to cooperate with us..."

            "You're right, of course," Jane conceded quickly, before Morrell could finish the thought aloud. She shuffled the folder to one arm and reached inside her vest, withdrawing a tattered, old envelope from the breast pocket. With a smile, she passed it to Marin. "Try that," she suggested. "See if it changes his mind."

            "What is it?" Morrell asked, weighing it in her hand without opening it. The envelope was not sealed, but if Jane had wanted her to open it she would have said so. As it was, she could see a square, dark patch in the center of it.

            "A photo," Jane told her. She flashed a smug smile to her friend. "The girl may not have been talking, but she didn't mind me taking a Polaroid."

            Marin looked up in surprise. Yes, Stiles had told her he was done, but to jump straight from trying to explain herself to... this? "That's kind of going for the throat, don't you think?" she asked, worried. Jane hadn't been sitting with Stiles for as long as Morrell had and she still didn't feel like she could judge how he would take the presentation of such a gift.

            "Perhaps," Jane agreed. "But these two are the only ones with answers. Even if we get into the records, we know they're missing a lot. We know these two didn't talk, and if we're going to get them out of here safely, that's got to change. So show him the picture, and ask for his help."

            "And if it breaks him?" Morrell asked quietly. She didn't think she could stand to hurt Stiles any more than he had been.

            Jane sighed, gave a little shake of her head. "Sounds to me like he's already broken. I don't think a picture's going to make it any worse for him. But it might give him a reason to talk. It might give him a reason to start mending."

            "Or it might give him a reason to want out," Morrell pointed out with a twinge of apprehension. She had heard what Stiles was capable of, knew that if he decided there was a reason for him to be out of his bonds, he would be out of them. Then they would have a _real_ problem on their hands.

            "Or that," Jane accepted with a shrug. She held up the files. "I'll take these back and see what I can get my paws on without permission."

            Morrell rolled her eyes as Jane whirled around, heading for the exit. "Try not to get us kicked out?" she called hopefully after her.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles sat atop the small, rickety bed, pressed into the corner, feeling both walls at once. There was not enough bedding to bunch up around himself, not enough  that he could pretend the pack curled their warm, furry bodies all around him, but the walls sometimes came close, if he leaned against both of them at once. So he sat, the journal in his lap, a soft blue glow falling from the transparent rune perched in his palm. The darkness was otherwise absolute in his tiny, windowless room.

            He wasn't allowed to have candles, not anymore, and they wouldn't direct power to this section just for him.

            Sometimes he enjoyed the dark. It was free, kept him from feeling confined. If he couldn't see the four small walls, the cramped twin bed, the small bathroom attached to the room along the back corner, then he could imagine he was somewhere else. He could imagine he was in an old, abandoned house, waiting for the pack to return. He could imagine he was in a field under a blanket of clouds so thick he couldn't see the stars.

            He could imagine he was anywhere but here, and sometimes that was the only reason he _was_ still here.

            The page under his free hand was a mess of scribbles, a lot of wasted space, which was so unusual for Derek. Half the script was not Derek's tiny, clean print; it was Stiles' own chicken scratch, written at an odd angle, and he remembered the night well. He remembered laying coiled around Derek where he sat on the floor of that little abandoned house, a day out from El Dorado. He remembered batting at Derek's pen like a bored cat, wanting to go to sleep, unable to do so alone anymore.

            He remembered the exasperated sigh, and the way Derek's entire attention shifted to him at once, and the blush that heated his skin because he hadn't really _wanted_ to make Derek _stop_.

            Stiles traced a finger over the neat writing, the little swivels left every time he made a swipe at the pen and succeeded in bumping it. A smile twitched at the edge of his lips, unfamiliar, soft. The first words under Derek's print belonged to Stiles, had been written sideways from the floor, because Stiles hadn't wanted the betas to hear him.

            _Come to bed!_

            He remembered the little huff of patient laughter, the way Derek slid the pen from his longer fingers and wrote beside it in an attempt to conserve space.

            _Soon. You_ can _go without me, you know._

            _Can't sleep_

            _Why are you writing?_

            There were double lines under the question mark and Stiles could picture the little brow raise Derek gave him as he passed the pen back. Stiles had propped himself onto one elbow, practically crawling into Derek's lap to continue writing.

            _Betas. If they hear me asking for cuddles, they'll want to join in and how will I get anything done?_

            He had passed the pen back with his best impression of a solemn, straight face, knowing that Derek knew better. But Derek was indulgent of him, and so he just rolled his eyes with a breathy little laugh and scribbled down what he knew Stiles wanted him to say.

            _Do? It's the middle of the night, what have you got to do?_

_You!_

            Or at least, it would have said 'you' had Derek not upended the journal before Stiles could even finish writing, rolling himself so that Stiles was laying half pinned below him on the floor. He'd set his chin on his palm on Stiles' sternum as Stiles folded his arms behind his head and met his gaze, enjoying the feel of Derek's free hand edging up under his shirt, skimming softly over his ribs.

            "You are _so_ far beyond help," Derek had told him fondly. It was a favorite phrase of his, any time Stiles remotely asked for help of any kind.

            "Is that a yes?" Stiles inquired, tongue in cheek, a grin on his lips as he raised both eyebrows in proposition.

            He remembered that night, how soft it had been, how well he had slept with Derek curled into his side, snoring quietly. They had gone to sleep alone in the abandoned house's master bedroom, but Stiles remembered waking up to a face full of furry Isaac and Erica after they invaded anyway. He missed that, missed waking up with no room around him, with heartbeats under his hands.

            Everything here was cold and static and dead.

            He extinguished the rune, closing his hand over it as he folded the journal shut. Total darkness claimed the room in an instant, and he closed his eyes, letting the silence settle around him like a blanket. He hugged the journal to his chest, pressed back against the hard walls of the makeshift cell.

            At least in the darkness, he could imagine he was not alone.

 

* * *

 

            She sat in the empty interrogation room, legs crossed, one long finger tapping at the cool surface of the table. In her other hand she held the envelope that Jane had given her, thumb smoothing absently along the bottom edge as she thought. The folder containing all of his documents sat idle upon the table, atop a second, darker folder with yet more papers, these ones from Jane. She had woken Marin early by tossing them very unceremoniously upon her chest with a shout and a smile. Sleep was still clinging to the insides of Morrell's eyelids as she waited.

            It was worth it, though, once she learned what was inside the folder.

            Across the room, there was a triple knock and then the door was swinging open. She straightened, uncrossing her legs and shifting so that she could fully face the table, be ready to move at a moment's notice. She tucked the envelope with the photo into her jacket, out of sight in case she didn't have to use it yet. In case he would talk to her without it.

            When Stiles saw her he froze, the guard behind him bumping into him hard enough to cause him to stumble forward slightly. She expected the way his eyes narrowed, the deep breath he took, steeling himself for whatever course of action he'd already decided. Behind him, the guard made no move to prod him further into the room, either through experience or courtesy. Morrell wasn't sure which.

            "Good morning, Stiles," she greeted, as calm as she could, not sure what sort of mood he would be in after the discoveries of the day prior. Thankfully she'd brought a peace offering, on the advice of one of the camp's residents. She waved a hand at the small wooden bowl on the table between them. It was full of strawberries. "I brought you breakfast."

            Stiles scowled. "I'm not hungry." He flinched as he said it.

            "You are," Morrell said softly. "And I was told you're very fond of strawberries."

            He refused to look at her, his scowl deepening.

            She sighed. "I know you don't trust me, and that's my own fault," she told him, speaking slowly, making sure he heard each word. He seemed lucid, if angry. "I should have told you I'm not from your camp, but I was given the impression that it would be difficult to get you to talk no matter where I was from. I thought that if you believed I-"

            "You were misinformed," Stiles blurted out before she could finish, his gaze snapping up to look at her. She could see the surprise that brightened his golden-brown eyes. Obviously he'd meant to keep his jaw wired shut when it came to her, which would have been unsurprising considering the amount of silence he had endured for the past couple of years.

            "Clearly," she agreed solemnly. "However, my offer is still valid. It is still on the table to you. I can still get you out." They wanted to get him more than just _out_ , but she didn't want to give him false hope yet.

            "I don't want out," he replied, but his voice caught on the words. She saw when his gaze slid sideways, the small hunch of his shoulders as he looked at something that wasn't there. She wished she could hear whatever it was.

            A sad smile twitched the corner of her lip. "Everyone wants out, one way or another," she told him, drawing his attention back to her. He may not have wanted to walk free, but he didn't want to be here and they both knew it.

            His gaze dropped, jaw clenching.

            She sighed. "Look, Stiles," she murmured. "I know you're angry with me. I know that these people hurt you, took everything from you. I may not be able to tell you much about myself or where I've come from, but I _can_ tell you that I want to give some of it back to you."

            "You can't," he snarled back. His head wove back and forth slightly as his eyes squinted shut, his shoulders hunching against some loud noise only he could hear. "Don't lie to me, I don't need more lies. Harris was full of empty promises."

            "Okay," she conceded before he could get so riled up he lost focus. She needed him here, needed him present in body _and_ in mind. "He was, I agree. Stiles," she said, drawing his attention as it began to wander again. She was amazed at how bright his golden-brown eyes were when they met hers. She could see the wild in him, like a cornered animal. "I'm not going to hurt you. Come sit down."

            Though he swallowed, he edged into the room, slid into the seat across from her. The guard that had accompanied him trailed patiently behind him, and Morrell was surprised that he had let them go through their back-and-forth without saying a word. Once Stiles was seated, the guard latched the cuffs to the loop bolted to the floor, and then left them to their own devices. Morrell watched Stiles through it all, saw the slouch of his body once he was trapped in place, the fight leaving him now that he was anchored. Whatever she had to say or do, in an instant he had resigned himself to the pattern of interrogation he'd been subjected to for the past two years. She hated it.

            Reaching into her jacket, she pulled out the envelope Jane had given to her. She had hoped, however fleetingly, that she could get him to talk without it, but that seemed unlikely now. Laying it on the table between them, she met his wary gaze. When she nodded to the envelope, he looked away from her with a sort of stubborn resolve, hands firmly in his lap. She managed not to roll her eyes.

            "Looking at it won't sign any contracts," she told him. "This is important."

            His nose wrinkled like he thought she had no idea what the word _important_ meant, but his eyes fell down to the envelope, taking in the tattered corners, the smudges of grime on the surface. This was a well-used envelope, one seam ready to fall apart at a moments notice. Morrell supposed that there were not many real envelopes left in the world; it may have been a long time since Stiles had seen one.

            "What is it?" Stiles asked finally. It wasn't quite a surrender, laced with suspicion.

            She leaned a little closer, turning it over with one hand. The flap had no spring or resistance left to it, so when she flopped it open, it stayed there. The back of the photograph was visible, peeking out from the V of the inner fold. When he made no move to extract it, she slid it out with one finger, and then gently flipped it over for him to see.

            His eyes snapped to hers, wide and disbelieving. "What is this?" he demanded, sharp and desperate.

            "One of your... your pack mates?" Morrell asked, not quite sure what term they would have used to refer to one another. "Lydia Whittemore."

            Stiles' eyes dropped back to the photograph, his hands still firmly in his lap, like if he touched it, she might disappear from it, or that it might be taken away from him. Morrell's heart gave a little twist when she noticed he was trembling. "Where- Where did you get this?" The words were barely a breath.

            "It was taken a few days ago," she told him, slow and gentle. What she had to tell him was delicate information, the sort that could cause him any number of reactions, but he deserved to know the full scale of affect his choice would have. "From what I understand, she's being held in a similar fashion to you."

            She let him process that for a moment, let him trace the lines of his pack mate's face, let him register that _a few days ago_ meant she was still alive. When he reached up to splay a hand over the photograph, she laid one smooth hand over his. When he looked up, eyes full of questions and hope, she offered him a tentative, fleeting smile.

            "Your release includes hers. When we're done, you'll both be free to go."

 

* * *

 

            Stiles could feel himself trembling as he tried to hold the picture steady in his hands. His vision blurred with tears but he couldn't unclench his fingers enough to let go, to wipe at them. In his chest, his heart felt like something had sunk in claws and twisted, howling at him that Lydia was alive, that some member of his pack had survived with him.

            The only thought louder was that if she was alive, she was being kept alone, just like him. She was confined, just like him, without the comfort of another beating heart. Months and months, over two years alone with her thoughts, away from everything they had shared. He knew what that was like, what it did to a person, and he could barely breathe when he thought of Lydia having to go through it, too. Not after what she went through, not after what she lost.

            Now, the woman in front of him was telling him that it was on his shoulders, that her fate, her freedom, was his decision.

            All he had to do was give her everything he had left.

            Through sheer force of will, he managed not to crumple the photo in a fit of anger. His eyes closed. "Fine," he spat.

            The recorder clicked and whirred to life between them.

 

* * *

 

            With Peter missing and Derek still healing, the entire pack stayed at home for most of the following day. Stiles spent much of it helping to cut and salt strips of meat from the deer the pack had brought down the day before, and helping to hang the curing meat in the cellar of the house. Boyd grudgingly explained to him how they had screwed hooks into the rafters above so they wouldn't have to worry about it touching anything while it cured. Stiles told him it was clever, and Boyd didn't scowl quite as much at him afterward.

            "We're leaving before this lot finishes," Boyd confided to him as they threaded the last batch in the late afternoon. "I'm not sure what Derek thinks we're going to do with it. Can't pack it like this."

            Stiles hesitated, glancing over, fingers sticky with meat slime slowing in their work. "You can't, ah... you guys don't have a cart or something?"

            Boyd's brows furrowed as he looked over to Stiles. "What's a bunch of wolves going to do with a cart?" he asked, like it was a stupid question.

            "Cure meat, for one," Stiles answered, poking out his tongue. It had gotten almost easy to converse with the werewolf, and it should have made Stiles uneasy. He just felt relieved; maybe Scott would be okay after all. "We had one, for a while, my dad and me. Um, after everything went to shit, it was us and a handful of officers from his precinct, and one of them used to be a hunter. His house was trash, but we followed him to a farm where he used to get his deer processed. We put together a sheltered cart, for food and stuff, and after a bit, we figured out we could, you know, hang meat to dry, too."

            Snorting, Boyd turned his attention back to his strips. "Fancy," he commented, but he didn't do very well keeping the admiration from his tone. "Maybe you can show us before you leave."

            The pit of Stiles' stomach gave a little, confusing turn at that. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I mean, of course it might not do you guys any good, if you're trying to move fast."

            Boyd hummed his agreement and they finished stringing the last of the meat. They hung it at the border of the cellar, where the cement floor met a dirt addition and the walls turned to cobblestone. There was just enough room for all of the strips they'd made.

            "You don't think anything will get in here, do you?" Stiles asked, fingers nimbly tying the string of the last strip to the last peg. He indicated with a tip of his head to the gaping hole in the addition, where the tree that had collapsed the portion of the house above them had broken through into the basement.

            Shrugging, Boyd wiped his hands on one of the rags they'd brought down with them. "It's not safe," he replied. "Peter told us to stay away from it."

            A frown creased Stiles' face, but before he could investigate the cobblestone-walled addition, Boyd had grabbed his arm and was propelling him toward the stairs. "But I just-"

            "No," Boyd told him, but there was the faintest undercurrent of amusement. Stiles let himself be steered.

            When they got upstairs, there was a commotion that had nothing to do with their prior task. Derek was snarling around the house, Erica on his heel talking quietly to him. Both of them had gone to patrol the area, to try to find Peter before he got into trouble. It looked like they had failed; there was blood on their hands, on their shoes, in Derek's hair. Boyd and Stiles exchanged a look, their own hands and clothes bloody from handling the venison.

            Somehow Stiles doubted it was deer blood smeared crimson on their skin.

            "What happened?" Stiles asked before he could stop himself.

            Derek stiffened, whipping around on Stiles like he was going to attack. Though he held his ground, Stiles' eyes widened when he met Derek's gaze. It was as if the blood had somehow tainted his eyes as well, the irises practically glowing with red. His face was changed, crinkled and furry and fanged, and Stiles felt himself pale as he recoiled slightly. Derek's brow furrowed further at the motion, and the red cleared from his eyes in an instant.

            For a long moment, no one moved. Stiles could feel Boyd at his side but it was distant, an echo of real life compared to the intensity of the blue-eyed stare fixed upon him. The sound of Derek's breath, harsh in his throat, filled the room, everyone else's stuck in their lungs, caught in their throats as they waited for what would happen.

            "Derek...?" Stiles said softly, one hand raised slightly to calm the beast before him. Derek's eyes may not have been bloodied with rage, but they were still wild.

            "Get out," Derek choked out, harsh and rough. It was obvious, how much effort he was making to calm down, to stay human.

            "What?" Stiles demanded, gaze shifting sideways to land on Scott, who looked just as bewildered as Stiles felt. "And go where? What happened?"

            " _Get out_ ," Derek demanded again, taking a step toward Stiles, threatening with his entire body.

            Stiles scowled, anger flaring. Emergency or not, he didn't deserve a threat for his concern. "You're covered in blood, and I'm not going anywhere until you tell us what's going on!" he snapped, holding his ground. He'd fought supers before, even hand to hand, even when he'd been younger and had known far less about defending himself. Derek may have been an alpha werewolf, but Stiles was a trained, post-apocalypse warrior and he was _not_ backing down from a couple words and some threatening body language.

            Unfortunately, Derek wasn't vacant threats and charm, and the next moment found Stiles shoved roughly against the wall with superhuman strength, the werewolf's forearm smashed tight to his throat. Lips pulled back, long canines bared, Derek snarled at him, shoving again for good measure.

            "You're going to get out of my house, go back to your base, and help your _people_ salvage the remains of the scouting group we just found smeared across a quarter mile of forest," Derek growled, low in his chest, the words rumbling across Stiles' skin.

            Stiles' eyes dropped, skipping over the fangs along Derek's lips, and he swallowed thickly. "Remains?" he asked, voice cracking into a strange whisper.

            "As in dead," Derek said flatly, forearm loosening as his hands found Stiles' shirt instead. He may have wanted to sound angry, but he just sounded so _tired_. "As in Peter got to them, and what's left is barely worth burying."

            Slowly, in as non-threatening a way as Stiles knew how, he brought his hands up, laid them over Derek's where they were curled in the material of his shirt. "You're kicking us out because Peter killed someone?" He frowned, though, because scout parties were always three. "Because he killed three people?"

            The fire returned to Derek's curled lips. "I'm kicking you out because they're going to come looking for us now, and we don't have time to baby a turnwolf," he snapped, pulling Stiles bodily away from the wall and sending him stumbling in the general direction of the door. "We're leaving."

           "What!" Stiles cried at the same time as Scott. They exchanged a glance, Stiles shaking his head in denial. "You can't! You _promised_ you would-"

            "I didn't promise you _anything_ , human," Derek interrupted harshly, advancing on Stiles once more, backing him up toward the exit. Isaac dodged out of the way, trailed to a stop beside Scott. The two shared a confused, worried look that Stiles noted even in the heat of the moment.

            "You kick us out now, and Scott's as good as _dead_ ," Stiles shouted, pushing back at Derek rather than backing down when Derek got too close. The wolf caught his wrists, squeezing painfully, but Stiles didn't give him the satisfaction of crying out. "And I'll be right after him," he bit out instead, bringing up a knee to try to work some distance between himself and Derek, shoving at the wolf's belly.

            "Not my problem," Derek told him nastily, shifting so Stiles' leg fell back to the floor with a thump, and shoving the boy away from him by the wrists. Stiles' back thudded hard against the front door. "Get out before-"

           "Before what!" Stiles cut him off with a high shout. "Before you kill us? You may as well! You may as well just kill us, Derek! What the hell happened to doing the right thing?!"

            Derek hackled, but before he could take any further violent action, Isaac was at his side, gently shouldering him away as Scott ducked in and grabbed Stiles by the back of the neck.

            "Go," Isaac said softly to Scott. Stiles tore his gaze from Derek just long enough to see the regret in the young wolf's eyes. "Just go."

            "Yeah," Scott agreed, and he sounded miserable but he was nudging Stiles to one side, drawing open the creaky front door and ushering his best friend through it. He turned back to Isaac for just a moment, lips pursed and brows furrowed, ignoring Derek completely. "Sorry. We're sorry."

            "Us too," Isaac told him, nodding.

            Stiles planted his feet before Scott could get him any further, before they managed to make it off the porch. He put his hands on Scott's shoulders and Scott let him pause, let him lock eyes with Derek. Stiles shook his head and Scott heard the minute tremble in his voice when he spoke.

            "We _trusted_ you," Stiles told Derek, quiet but firm. "We still need your help."

            "I'm _sorry_ , Stiles," Derek stressed, just going slack in Isaac's hold at the broken tone. "I have to put my pack first."

            Stiles swallowed, amber-brown gaze raking over the fully-human alpha, and then he nodded, just once. "Fine." His fingers slipped from Scott's shoulders and he turned away from the pack, chest tight. "Let's just go," he said, like a surrender. 

            The sound of their feet upon the stairs was hollow and cold, but it was nothing compared to the soft, final click of the door behind them.


	5. Chapter 5

 

* * *

 

 

 

            The air was clear and soft as they trekked through the forest, climbing over fallen trees, not quite hopping the stream which gushed with fresh rainfall. Their gear, or most of it, was back at the werewolf house, a fact which pissed off Stiles far more than it did Scott. Guns were difficult to come by these days, Stiles reasoned aloud, cranky and sharp. The one he carried he had brought with him to the camp all the way from his hometown, from his father's station.

            "We can go back for it," Scott suggested tiredly, brushing rain-weighted leaves away from his face.

            "We're not _going back_ ," Stiles hissed, tart and clipped. "I'm just saying they shouldn't have made us leave like that! They agreed to teach you! They were just- we had an agreement. I thought-"

            When Stiles cut himself off, Scott slowed, watched as Stiles tromped through the forest as if it had personally offended him. After a moment Stiles realized Scott was no longer following him, and he turned to see what the hold up was, only to find Scott staring at him, head tipped slightly. His lips were pursed and he was wearing the face that said Stiles had done something he was about to regret. He groaned, but managed not to take the bait by asking what it was until Scott began to walk again.

            "Nothing," Scott told him, moving past him. Stiles grabbed his sleeve at the elbow and gave him a pointed look, to which Scott rolled his eyes not a little dramatically. "It just seems like, you know, maybe you _wanted_ to stay there." He shrugged. "That's all."

            "Well I didn't," Stiles replied hotly, and Scott's brow furrowed a little. "What?"

            "Weird..."

            "What's weird, Scott?" Stiles asked impatiently. He didn't think there was anything weird about not wanting to have sleepovers with a pack full of deadly werewolves.

            Scott considered whatever it was for a moment, his head cocked with one side closer to Stiles. "I can hear your heartbeat," he said softly. "Since this morning, I could. Except..." He met Stiles' eyes, confused. "You don't have a heart condition, do you?"

            "No," Stiles said, suddenly a little nervous because it had been six years since the apocalypse had hit, which meant it had been six years since anyone actually certified to do so had given him a physical. Six years since doctors had stopped keeping an eye on him after what happened to his mother.

            "Hunh," Scott said, shrugging a little. "It just- it sounded like your heart stuttered? Not a lot!" he rushed to assure Stiles when his friend gave him a wide-eyed look. "Just sped up a little."

            Before Stiles could make any sort of retort, he saw a shiver of movement through the trees and signaled silently to Scott to shut up and get down. Together they dropped to the padded forest floor and fell still, Scott turning before he settled. It was on both their minds, the loose-cannon former alpha prowling this neck of the woods. If Derek had been truthful, then Peter had taken out an entire, armed, three-man scouting party and two unarmed humans weren't about to be a match for him.

            Dark hair bobbed into view, and Stiles relaxed when he saw the bright-orange bandana tied up around her hair. He didn't move as he shouted, not wanting to draw fire. "Kiele!"

            The figure froze, then rotated around to his direction. There was a beat of silence during which Stiles considered shouting again, but she beat him to it. "Stiles?"

            "Yeah, stand down!" he shouted back, and Scott rolled his eyes like Stiles was stupid for thinking she'd do anything else. "Scott's here too!"

            "Oh my god!" she exclaimed, now hurtling through the underbrush toward him. He rose as she reached them and she flung herself at him without any attempt to slow her momentum. Catching her, Stiles huffed at the impact, but he returned the hug. "We thought you were dead!"

            "We thought we were dead, too," Scott told her, accepting a hug as well. He dropped his gaze, refusing to meet her gaze. "Kiele..." He sighed, a breathy noise through his nose. "I- I'm sorry." He looked up, guilt scrawled in every line of his face. Stiles had the good sense to copy the face, though he wasn't sure what for. "We got attacked by that alpha werewolf, and Jackson and... and Danny..."

            Kiele's burst of sunny laughter startled both boys, and she smacked Scott in the chest. "They're at camp," she told him with good-humored exasperation. "They said the same thing about you."

            "They're _alive_?" Stiles exclaimed, doing a damn fine job of sounding surprised even though he knew better. He let out a long sigh of relief.

            She tipped her head slightly and motioned to encompass both of them. "How'd you two dingbats survive?"

            Both boys immediately looked nervous, trading a glance. Stiles took lead. "Uh, we never actually came up against the thing," he told her. Scott was watching him intently, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. "I mean, we did, obviously, but when we split up he- it chased Jackson and your brother off. We tried to follow them, but we lost them through Stony Creek."

            Unimpressed did not begin to describe her expression, and the suspicion edging her eyes made Stiles nervous. "So, what, you been wandering the woods for two days instead of coming back?" she asked, brow rising. "And where's your gear?"

           Stiles glanced to Scott like a deer in high beams, but Kiele was staring at _him_ , not Scott, and so he shrugged meekly. "The alpha's been between us and home since then. He- it disappeared this morning." Scott was giving him that _look_ again, and he shifted uncomfortably without taking his eyes off of Kiele, hoping she didn't ask about their gear again.

            Kiele dropped her gaze. "Yeah, it moved 'round north east, got Jamie's group, except it left Raul alive. Sent him back with a bite wound and a message."

            Stiles didn't need superhuman hearing to catch the click of Scott's throat as he swallowed. "A message?" Scott asked neutrally. Stiles knew he didn't want to talk about bites. He didn't want to ask whose bullet it had been, or where Raul got buried. Neither of them did.

            "Yeah," she said, nodding. "It wants Gerard to give up Kate. Something about how Gerard killed its family." She rolled her eyes in a way that drew her whole body into the motion, a look of disgust rolling over her features. "As if a Super has _family_ , right?"

            Though she laughed, a cold lump settled in both boys' bellies. "Yeah," Stiles agreed weakly, forcing a chuckle.

            She shot him a look that said he was weird, but then touched her fingers to the walkie talkie on her shoulder. "Lorenzo, you're not gonna believe this one. I found McCall and Stilinski."

            There was a crackle and then Lorenzo's nasal voice filtered over the equipment. "In one piece?"

            Laughing, she pressed the button. "Yeah, one piece, jackass. You and Warren head in, I'm taking them back."

            "Yes ma'am," came the immediate response.

            She fixed the two of them with a look, and then motioned in the direction of home with a tick of her head. "Shall we?" However, she didn't wait for a response, just began moving toward the camp without so much as a backward glance to make sure they were following.

            Scott snagged Stiles' sleeve before he could follow too closely, letting Kiele get a good lead on them without getting out of sight. Then he released his friend, and Stiles gave him a curious look as he shook out his sleeve. "What?"

            "It's when you lie," Scott said softly. At Stiles' puzzled look, he added: "Your heartbeat upticks when you lie."

            For a split second their eyes met, and then Scott turned away as well, trudging after Danny's little sister. Stiles swallowed thickly before trailing after him.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles wasn't sure what he was expecting when they returned to the camp, but being assaulted by Allison was not it. She closed the distance from the gate to Scott like another apocalypse might start if she didn't, and the moment she was in range she pulled him into a fierce hug. In the embrace, Scott turned to mush, hugging her back and burying his nose in the crook of her neck. A certain amount of desperate happiness for them beset Stiles as he watched, the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile.

            Then he was ensconced in a hug of his own as Allison turned her attention to him as well, and the choked laugh he let out was caught somewhere between relief and fear. It was a somewhat awkward hug, with her swollen belly in the way, and Stiles couldn't figure out how Scott had made it seem so effortless.

            "I thought we'd lost you!" she gasped, returning her grasp to Scott. "If you ever stay away that fucking long again, I really am going to come hunt your asses down and butcher you myself, are we clear?"

            "Crystal," both boys mumbled, looking for all the world like scolded five year olds, and Allison was already pulling Scott into another hug.

            "Geezus, when Jackson and Danny showed up alone- I almost left right then," she told them, and if either of them had ever regretted anything it was the pain in her voice. "I'm so glad you're okay."

            "Actually, ma'am," began a voice off to their right. One of the camp intake volunteers had approached them, skirting around Kiele to get closer. "We don't _know_ that they're okay, and they-"

            "They _what_?" Allison interrupted, in the tone of voice that said they had better not fucking _anything_. "You think I can't judge when my own husband and his best friend are fine?"

            There was no right answer for the volunteer, and he stood there for a moment just opening and closing his mouth, as if he could gasp in a retort that would save him from Allison's wrath. He couldn't, and his stuttered "B-But, ma'am, everyone-" was cut short.

            "These two are not _everyone_ ," she snapped. "I've had two full days of thinking these two were stone dead and I'm not letting them off that easy. I can give them the physical myself. Full body," she said significantly, and the volunteer blushed.

            "Oh," he breathed in a rush. "Oh, okay."

            Stiles rolled his eyes, and gave the volunteer an apologetic smile. As if the camp didn't already assume he was having a romping good time with Scott and Allison both, he was sure rumors were now going to be rampant for weeks if they managed to survive this. As it was, he was just beyond thrilled that Allison was being clingy and insistent. There was no way the volunteer they were leaving behind would take the issue to Gerard, not when the issue involved suggesting to Gerard that his precious granddaughter was somehow not capable of something.

 

* * *

 

            "She really saved you," Morrell said softly, and Stiles looked up to meet her eyes. He'd nearly forgotten she was there, absorbed in the story and blanketed by the quiet clicking of the recording device.

            Stiles nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. "She had a lot of pull."

            "Because of Gerard," Morrell concluded. Stiles nodded again. "So she said that the two of you were okay, and everyone else accepted that?"

            "What were they going to do?" Stiles scoffed, meeting her eyes. "Go interrupt Gerard to tell him his granddaughter broke protocol? Have you _met_ the man?"

            "I haven't," she said, and when his eyes narrowed at her tone, she forced a smile. "So she unwittingly covered for you and-"

            "It wasn't unwitting," Stiles interrupted.

            "Hm?" Morrell straightened up a little. Realization dawned in her eyes the same moment. "Stiles... are you telling me that Allison Argent _knew_? Before you returned?"

            Stiles considered her for a moment, wondering what difference it made. Allison knew, of course she knew, but no one else could have known that she knew or else she'd have been keeping Stiles company in the basement of the hospital.

            "Yes," he said finally, cautious. "She can be... _convincing_ when she wants to know something. Jackson caved, and told her. About the alpha, about the bite, about us leaving to find the wolves. He told us he thought it would buy time, but it could have gotten us killed just as easily."

            "She could have turned you in," Morrell said. "She _should_ have turned you in, to protect the camp."

            Again, Stiles nodded a confirmation. His eyes roamed to the side but didn't leave the table. "Allison... S-she likes to take care of her own problems," he mumbled. "If anyone was going to kill Scott, it was going to be her. If he was a wolf, if he had to be put down, it was going to be _her_ bullet."

            It was Morrell's turn to nod thoughtfully. The smile she turned to Stiles this time looked far more genuine, the sadness touching her eyes. "It sounds as if she loved him very much."

            A tiny huff of laughter scratched at Stiles' throat. "That's an understatement. She'd have done anything for him. Hell, she did do anything for him. She was eight months pregnant and instead of resting, she spent those two days prowling the camp entrances waiting for us to turn up so she could save our asses. Scott was livid anyone let her, but I guess you don't really _let_ Allison Argent do anything, you know?" His gaze flicked to Morrell and then away. "I suppose you don't know."

            "No," she said softly. "I don't. I also don't... How did you end up with the werewolves again?" she asked, and there was that word again, falling from her lips like nothing special. Stiles scrunched up his face and sighed.

            "It's weird, right?" he murmured. "That should have been the end of it. Derek kicked us out and Jackson saved us by telling Allison and we should have gotten away with it all. Derek was supposed to find Peter and take the pack away, and our unit would just deal with whatever happened to Scott. That would have been the end of the story."

            _Except_ hunt heavy in the air between them, and Morrell let it for a while. Stiles edged his fingers around the corners of the small photograph in his hand, feeling the slide of the silky photo parchment. It was backward, Lydia's visage pointed away from him because there was too much waiting in the pit of his mind if he kept looking at her. Finally he set it face down on the table, because Morrell was looking at him like she'd asked a question and he knew the answer she wanted.

            "Except that wasn't the end of it, you know?" Stiles blurted out, the words just torn from him in a rush. "It was barely the beginning, and we just... we weren't ready."

 

* * *

            

          Though Stiles had hoped the camp had only imprisoned Raul to see if the bite took, it didn't take much digging to find out otherwise. Stiles had ended up on the outskirts of the camp at the field they used for a graveyard, looking at the crudely carved wooden cross and cursing camp regulations. He hadn't known Raul well, but just having someone else going through the same obstacle course would have made this all easier. It would have let him reference everything happening to Scott to something else, maybe let him establish a baseline.

          The first week was much easier than either of them had anticipated, the changes coming both slower and faster than they'd guessed. Stiles wasn't sure what he had expected of Scott's transformation- maybe some sort if epic, werewolf-induced freak out with fangs and claws with an exciting but tragic real-friends-help-you-hide-the-body finale. It wasn't like that, though, and Stiles told himself he was grateful that the only bodies turning up weren't ones that Scott created.

            As it was, they took the transformative hits as they came, and grappled with Scott's problems as best as they could without a map. They had more free time to cope than they would have normally had, after Scott's mother recommended that their hunting team be taken off the roster for the first week after they returned. For mental health reasons, Melissa had told Gerard with a stern scowl that said she would brook no argument. Combined with Allison's insistence that she needed both Scott and Stiles nearby, Gerard had not seen it to be worth the fight. A greenhorn hunting team took their slice of hunting grounds, and everyone on the team except for Matt - who was still sick - piled into Allison's quarters to strategize together.

            The increase in Scott's hearing was both a blessing and a curse, as they found out. He could hear the heartbeats of everyone in a thirty yard radius, but that meant that he could hear the heartbeats of everyone in a thirty yard radius- along with everything louder. Cranky did not begin to describe his mood, and there was nothing to be done about the headache all the noise induced in that first week back. They tried various herbs from the stores, ones that were supposed to help, but nothing worked.

            After his sense of hearing, it was his sense of smell that leapt to werewolf acuity. He confided to Stiles that everyone around camp smelled awful most of the time, with the limited showering ability and complete lack of deodorant six years post-apocalypse. There wasn't anything either of them could do about it, though, so Scott settled for pulling small faces at Stiles whenever someone smelled particularly ripe, turning it into an inside joke instead. Just about the only person Scott enjoyed being around was Allison, and Stiles only asked why once. He regretted the answer.

            It got miserable, the closer they got to the full moon. Scott was stressed and irritated from his headaches, and the little things that might not have normally set him off before put him on edge now. The fear that they were going to get caught had settled like a cold, dead weight in his belly. Stiles did his best to shoulder Scott away from harmful situations before they got nasty, before they got caught, but they were not even a full week in the first time Scott's eyes flashed yellow and claws peeked out from his fingertips.

            It was stupid, the first time it happened. They'd been sitting in the high school cafeteria, where nearly the entire camp took meals throughout the day. Jackson was tossing empty .22 shells at Danny across the table and saying 'bang' with a shit-eating grin that got bigger with every casing, and Allison was beside him doing her best impression of a person not ready to strangle him. Matt was fiddling with a Polaroid camera Danny's sister's group had brought back from their scouting mission the day prior, trying to figure out why the shutter wasn't closing properly.

            It was so _normal_.

            Then the hunter squad from two zones south west of them had swung into the cafeteria, more boisterous than strictly necessary, and Stiles was not the only one who caught the way Scott stiffened. Allison laid a hand on his shoulder, but he had an iron grip on his lunch tray.

            "Scott," Stiles said, low and urgent, trying to draw his attention back to the group. Jackson had stopped tossing shells and everyone was staring at their leader with slightly wide eyes. "Hey, buddy."

            "What's wrong?" Matt asked, looking amongst all of them. They hadn't told him yet why they were spending so much time together.

            Danny pursed his lips and sighed, then grabbed Matt's hand. "C'mon. We need to talk."

            A cackle from one of the girls from the other squad scattered around the quiet lunchroom, and Scott's eyes flashed a bright golden-orange. Stiles cursed and their group looked around like meercats, making sure no one was watching. If it hadn't been so dire, it would have been hilarious, and Stiles remembered to make fun of it later that night. As it was, they all needed Scott to calm down immediately, and none of them knew how to make that happen.

            "They saw Peter," Scott growled.

            Stiles blinked. "Like, the werewolf?" Stiles asked.

            "No, like the Pan," Scott snapped, nails nicking into the wood of the table. Allison laid her hand over his and he drew them out with a shuddering breath. "They said they shot him. They're going back tomorrow to see if they can pick up a blood trail. They're angry about Raul."

            The group looked nervously amongst themselves and a loudly squawked 'he _what_?!' from two tables over where Danny had taken Matt broke the silence. "We should maybe get out of here," Stiles said, scrambling to his feet. He immediately began to pry the lunch tray from Scott's fingers. "Let's get you back to the room, and Allison can sort out their group later."

            "You don't have to protect them," Jackson pointed out, sweeping up the shells with his hand. He'd be filling them later. "They bit Scott. They kicked you out. The one they shot killed those scouts. Maybe-"

            "If you say maybe he deserves it, so help me, Jackson," Allison interrupted.

            Stiles knew that she probably thought Peter _did_ deserve it, and if Stiles was being honest, it was probably even true. Peter had killed humans. If it had been any other Super, or even just a couple weeks ago, Stiles might have agreed. Now, he wanted to know who drew first blood. Now he was worried that if they blamed the deaths on Peter being a _werewolf_ over him being a _bad person_ , that Scott would internalize it.

            Stiles wasn't sure which was more foolish of them; that they believed he wouldn't become a monster or that they worried he would become one if they talked about it.

            They had managed, that first day, to get Scott out of the lunchroom unseen. Danny had joined them at Scott and Allison's apartment later that evening, Matt in tow. They had played twenty questions of which fifteen of them didn't have answers, but Matt had accepted Scott's new lot in life without much actual fuss. Stiles wasn't sure what they would have done if he'd decided to rat them out to upper management. That was a situation that he wasn't sure even Allison could have gotten them out of, if it came down to it.

            The shift in eyes and claws and - eventually - teeth became more frequent as the days passed. It was better around Allison, at least, especially with how close she was to her due date. It was like a drug, every time the surprise crossed her expression and she reached for his hand as she felt the baby kicking. No matter what else was going on, he relaxed into her touch, temper evening out into calm once more. He smiled and laid his hand beside hers on her stomach.

            "I can hear his heart flutter," Scott murmured, smile twitching at his lips as he met Allison's gaze. She returned it, practically glowing.

            "You think it's a he?" Jackson asked, his feet propped up on the edge of the bed as he leaned back in the metal folding chair. "Can you smell it or something?" Lydia hit his shoulder for the tactless question. They'd had to let her in on the secret so that she'd been able to leave out a lot in their debriefing records.

            "No," Scott told him patiently, giving him a look. "I dunno, I just think it is."

            Allison's smile was nothing short of utterly mischievous. "I think it's a girl," she stated, light and high and teasing. None of them had any clue, of course, and though he didn't say anything, Stiles was with Allison on this one. Definitely a baby girl.

            "They used to say that moms had a way of just knowing," Danny commented off-hand, fiddling with the pieces of his handgun. He was cleaning it on the desk, preparing for their return to duty.

            Stiles didn't want to remember they were going back out in the field. As much as Scott had suffered through this week, Stiles had enjoyed it. There had been so many hours sitting in Allison's room, surrounded by his friends without pressure to be hunting something, without looking over their shoulders for werewolves or vampires or any of the other supernatural creatures plaguing the world so openly now.

            It was just so _peaceful_ , watching Danny and Jackson banter back and forth, watching Scott moon over Allison and Allison smile softly at the life beneath her skin, and Stiles thought it felt like home used to. It felt like they didn't have to be related to be family, an idea which had recently begun to send him into a tailspin of panic every time he had it.

            They were a _family_ , his little hunting squad.

            They were a _pack_ , and it made him wonder if maybe they'd been wrong.

            What if maybe they'd all been wrong this whole time and this was what it was like for werewolf packs? It made him wonder if this, this sense of family and belonging and content, was what they had been destroying every time they put holes in the pelt of a wolf. This was what Stiles had seen when he watched Derek's pack, and it turned his stomach sick and twisty to think that he'd once been ready to rip that apart without even asking _what if_.

            That night he didn't stay in Scott and Allison's quarters, but he didn't go back to his own, either. He crossed the camp, nodding to the few sleepy denizens that were still wandering the streets, until he reached a squat, three-story apartment building made from grey brick and horrible single-pane windows. The door was unlocked and he let himself into the hall, climbed the stairs to the third story, and knocked on his father's door in a pattern he had used since he was six years old and had a secret tree fort in the backyard.

            When his dad pulled open the door, his smile was already in place. "C'mon in," he greeted, stepping aside so Stiles could get past the door. "Thought you'd be hanging out with your team again."

            Stiles forced a half-hearted smile. "Uh, Scott and Allison were being disgustingly cute," he replied, and it was even mostly true.

            As the door clicked shut, his father chuckled. "I can't wait to see him with that kid," he said, ushering Stiles further into the little apartment. "He's going to make a great father."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed weakly, swallowing down the lump of dread and avoiding his father's gaze.

            His father's brow creased, and he halted, fixing Stiles with a no-nonsense look crafted from two decades of law enforcement service as he crossed his arms. Stiles was tired, sometimes, but he was not quiet, never nervy and hesitant like he was now. "What's wrong?"

            "Nothing's wrong!" Stiles blurted, too quickly. A flush colored his jawline and he rolled his eyes because even he could see how unconvincing _that_ was. "Nothing, it's just- I dunno."

            "You don't know, or you don't want to say?" his father asked, one skeptical brow rising.

            "I _can't_ say," Stiles admitted on a breath, like it hurt. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and was grateful when his dad just let him. Finally he shook his head and met his dad's gaze. "I've just been thinking a lot lately. Do you remember when I was a little kid, and you told me sometimes rules were stupid? You said that sometimes they were supposed to protect people, but sometimes they hurt people instead." He swallowed. This was why he was here. "Do you still think that? After... everything."

           His father gave him a measured look, slight frown creasing the edges of his lips, before he uncrossed his arms. "Yeah, kiddo. Sometimes."

            Stiles took a deep breath. "Then, can I ask you a weird question?" His heartbeat picked up just thinking of broaching the subject of Scott's transformation, of Derek's pack, of his group's silence on a matter that should have been addressed decisively a week ago.

            "Do you ask any other kind?" his father teased gently. Stiles just frowned, and his dad rolled his eyes in the exact same way as Stiles always did. "Go ahead."

            It was stupid, but Stiles hesitated, even then. He could change the question still. He could keep his mouth shut, keep his father out of it, not put any of them in a position where they could get into trouble. Instead he let out a slow breath and steeled himself to make decisions he wasn't sure he wouldn't regret. "I just- Do you ever wonder what if we're wrong?"

            "I wonder that all the time," his father told him. "Is there anything in particular you think we're wrong about today?"

            Sighing, Stiles leaned against the short wall that cordoned off the front door from the rest of the room. "I've been thinking lately that... we've spent the past few years just shooting anything that gets close to camp, but what if something good comes? How many good things have we killed? What if they could have helped us? What if they needed our help?"

            At this his father nodded slowly, taking in the information as he was wont to do. Stiles let him muse in silence, knew the way his father filed information into order, testing various pathways of thought before deciding anything. He wished he had the patience. "We spent two years on the road by ourselves," his father finally reminded him. "You were old enough to remember. Did we run across anything friendly?"

            "No," Stiles admitted, shoulders dropping. "But we never asked either. We fought or we ran, but we never asked."

            "And you're thinking maybe we should have?" his father asked. It wasn't a dig, not when he said it like that; he was trying to get to the root of Stiles' question, to give Stiles the best answer he could get, an answer he would be able to believe.

            "I think it's worth a shot, don't you?" Stiles responded. "This... this _war_ Gerard started... it's not going to last forever. Eventually humanity's going to get its feet under it and we'll have to decide if we're going to share the planet or not."

            "Are you hoping we do?" It was weird, how accepting his father's tone was. Stiles wondered how many times his father had the same thoughts, how badly it bothered him. He wanted to protect people; his whole adult life had been about protecting people. The question Stiles couldn't help but wonder was what constituted _people_ to his father.

            "I guess I just- shouldn't we at least see if it's possible?" he asked, almost helplessly. "Is ignorance going to be enough of an excuse for just wiping out everything in our path?"

            His father shrugged, giving him a quirked lip. "It's a good question," he admitted. "I'm sorry I don't have an answer for you, kiddo. Maybe your group can ask the next friendly Super you find."

            It was a joke, and Stiles knew it was a joke by the upturn in his father's tone, in the light that brightened his father's eyes, but it didn't _feel_ like a joke. It felt like a chill coursing through his blood, like the sudden realization that there _was_ a group of friendly Supers just outside of camp. Stiles had spent two days nestled in a werewolf den, and he came out _completely unscathed_. At the last, when the pack was in danger from Stiles' own people, even then Derek had only kicked them out.

           It would have been easier, _safer_ , to kill Scott and Stiles to increase their head start. Despite Scott's current condition, they were still mostly human and certainly still loyal to the human camp that would shortly be hunting the pack. Of course they would tell the camp where the wolves were. Of course they would rat out the group that turned them out in the cold. _Of course_.

            Except that they hadn't. They could have, with Allison covering for them. It would have been as easy as _we escaped_ , and they could have sent a squad to exterminate the werewolves the same day, before they could bolt. It might even have saved them a few of the side-eyes they had gotten since returning, if they'd had some sort of information instead of the lame, vague _we just played keep-away_ story they'd told a dozen times now.

            Yet through whatever unspoken agreement they'd made, Scott and Stiles hadn't breathed a word about what really happened. Danny and Jackson and Allison never mentioned it to them, didn't call them out on not turning in the pack. They didn't ask why they weren't, didn't suggest that they do so. Stiles had thought maybe they just didn't want to remember it, just wanted to cling to the normal lives they used to have for as long as possible but...

            Maybe they were asking themselves the same questions Stiles was. Maybe they were wondering why a group of werewolves - bloodthirsty, savage, heartless Supers - had taken Scott and Stiles into their group in the first place. Maybe they were wondering why they let Scott and Stiles leave alive. Maybe they were all wondering _what if_ together, and the thought both chilled and excited Stiles.

            "Yeah," he managed, forcing a breathy chuckle. "I'll get right on that."

 

* * *

 

            "You didn't go back," Morrell interrupted. "The records say your party didn't leave for another two days, and you came back right on schedule."

            Stiles hummed, tipping his head slightly, his eyes unfocused. "Yes." And then: "We didn't see them. We didn't go to the house, and we didn't see them. But they didn't- they stayed."

            Morrell contained her sigh, because Stiles was losing his focus again, getting harder to understand. His attention was slipping around, and his sentences were fragmenting. It was so difficult to keep him on-subject for long stretches of time, but he had seemed so lucid after seeing the photograph. She'd hoped for a little longer than this.

            "Stiles," she said softly. "The camp record says you and Jackson disappeared two weeks after you and Scott returned. Do you remember that? Do you remember going out in the woods with Jackson?"

            A weird little shudder went through him, head to toe, and he squinted his eyes shut tight. "It was for Lydia, he was always for Lydia," Stiles murmured, half to himself, pulling his hands off the table to put them in his lap. He hunched over them like he was expecting a blow. "How could they take him from her? They didn't see her face! He was so-"

            "Stiles," Morrell commanded sharply. His attention snapped to her, cloudy but severe. She gentled her tone, held his gaze. "You went into the woods with Jackson," she reminded him, and she saw a glimmer of recognition. "You were gone all day, Stiles, and you came back alone. What happened?"

            For a long moment he simply stared at her, jaw slacked open a tiny bit, tongue resting against his teeth. It was silent, dead silent, but it wasn't the closed-off silence he got when he was lost. She could tell from the tick of his eyes back and forth that he was thinking, though she could only hope that he was thinking about an answer for the question. When he gave a little shake of his head, his eyes cleared, locking on hers.

            "Scott cut himself," Stiles said, like an epiphany, and Morrell let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Before she could try to redirect him again, he continued. "He cut himself, and Jackson saw it, and that's why we had to go to the woods."

 

* * *

          

            The cafeteria was buzzing when their group returned from their first sweep back in the field. It was a clean sweep, nothing to report to Lydia's team when they arrived back at base. Stiles had taken lead, leaving Scott behind to stay with Allison, and if he had taken the group a little beyond the borders of the Beacon Hills Camp territory looking for signs that the wolves had safely moved on, no one mentioned it or complained. They didn't find anything, which Stiles supposed was just as well, as he couldn't decide which he would have preferred; to find they had moved on or to find that they hadn't.

            As it was, they debriefed and then Jackson stole Lydia away from the rest of the Nerd Herd records crew to come have dinner with them. Scott and Allison were already reserving their favorite table, quite a feat considering that they were arriving at the peak of the evening dining hours. Everyone slid into chairs and the customary exchanging of food began as everyone traded the things they didn't like away for better prospects.

            When the dust had settled, Scott cleared his throat and asked what they had found. Everyone looked to Stiles, who set down his fork and let out a sigh. "A whole lot of nothing," he responded, exasperated with the whole situation. When Scott gave him a frown, he rolled his eyes. "We didn't even get close, Scott. You know the edge of the camp is still a couple miles out from that house."

            "Yeah," Scott conceded, poking around at the flat, tough bread chunk on his tray. "I mean it's not like they'd help anyway."

            "You're doing fine on your own," Danny assured him. "You're almost week away from the full moon, and no one's even noticed."

            "They will," Scott mumbled, looking guilty. "It's getting harder to control." He picked up his knife and began hacking methodically at the bread, slicing it into bite-sized chunks to put into his stew bowl. "In a week, I don't think I'll be able to hide it."

            "Maybe we can sneak you out for a day or two," Lydia suggested lightly. "There's been talk about sending a team east, scoping out a new town to foster now that we're on our feet."

            Scott paused, looking up to her. "That... that might actually work," he admitted.

            "No way you'd get authorization before the moon," Jackson told him. "Maybe next moon, but not this one. Not without setting off all the little paranoia bells in Gerard's head."

            "True," Lydia conceded. She shrugged and Scott returned to his task with the bread. "Well, we'll just have to find a way to hide you. It's only one week. I'm sure we can keep you from murdering anyone until it's over."

            Scott's hands fumbled at the casual insinuation, his blade sinking into the pad of his thumb. He cursed, dropping the knife with a clatter and clapping his palm over the injury to stop the bleeding. Lydia looked chagrined, murmuring an apology as Allison passed over one of the cloth scraps they used for napkins. Gingerly, Scott peeled his hand away long enough to pick up the cloth, and then froze, eyes on his thumb.

            The injury was gone.

            There was a smear of blood where it had happened, but there was no sign of the ragged wound. He looked up, caught Stiles staring as well. Swallowing, he wiped away the blood and rested his hands against the table top, a little shocked.

            "Dude," Jackson breathed. He hadn't seen the healing power in action yet; none of them had, not even Stiles, though he had at least born witness to before and after the bite at the house.

            "I know," Scott mumbled. "Ridiculous, right?"

            "Useful," Matt commented, staring as well. His eyes flicked up to Scott's face. "Could you, like, regrow a limb?"

            "I'm not really gonna... find out," Scott told him, giving him a strange look.

            "Probably," Stiles supplied helpfully. When everyone looked at him, he shrugged. "Well have you ever seen a werewolf with a chopped off arm or something?" The group mumbled agreements that they had not, in fact, and Stiles nodded.

            They returned to their dinners, but Stiles didn't miss how quiet Jackson had gotten, or the way he stared thoughtfully at Scott for the rest of the hour. Stiles knew that look, and it was never anything good, so when the rest of the group rose to deposit their dirty trays and head home for the evening, Stiles nabbed Jackson's sleeve and told the rest of the group that they'd catch up. Lydia frowned, but Allison had her by the forearm and there was no way Lydia was going to resist her.

            As soon as they were alone, Jackson shrugged off Stiles' grasp and glowered at him. "What?"

            "You okay?" Stiles asked, worried that perhaps Jackson was having second thoughts about keeping Scott's secret. He had told Allison without permission, and Lydia as well, they had come to find out.

            Jackson scowled. "I'm fine."

            "Yeah? Cause you spent all of dinner staring at Scott like you couldn't decide what cut to make first," Stiles told him, so matter-of-fact there was no room to dispute it.

            Rolling his eyes, Jackson turned away just a little, not enough to put his back to Stiles. Then he hesitated, and Stiles could practically _hear_ his internal argument. With a breathy sigh, Jackson turned back around to face him, though he couldn't bring himself to look at Stiles. "I've just been thinking a lot about all this werewolf crap," he admitted. "How it's been two weeks and no one's noticed."

            "Yeah, and we're really freaking lucky," Stiles pointed out, brows furrowing. "If Allison hadn't covered our asses when we got back, Scott would be dead. He'd have gotten the silver bullet treatment the moment they figured it out."

            "Okay, but they _haven't_ ," Jackson told him. "And they're probably not going to."

            Stiles scoffed, not believing Jackson's complete lack of perspective. "We're not out of the fire yet; if we make it through this week, it'll only be because Peter's out causing so much trouble no one's going to look closely at Scott. I never thought I'd be _happy_ about people _dying_ , but I pretty much have to be because I know it's saving my ass too. And probably yours and Danny's."

            Jackson closed his eyes, shoulders hunching a little under the weight of that truth. "I know. You're right."

            Though he hesitated, Stiles reached out and touched Jackson's shoulder, drew his attention up. "I gotta know, man. You're not gonna tell anyone, are you?"

            "No!" Jackson said vehemently. "No. I just- Whatever. No, I'm not going to tell anyone. Are we done?"

            Stiles nodded toward the exit, and Jackson gave a little exasperated shake of his head before leaving. For a moment Stiles watched him go, tracked him as he pushed through the double doors with a little more force than necessary, and disappeared from sight. Only then did he let himself relax.

            He trusted that Jackson was going to keep his mouth shut, but he still didn't like the look in Jackson's eyes. Something was going on with Jackson, and Stiles needed to know what it was before it got their whole group into trouble. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like it.

 

* * *

 

_We still have not managed to catch my uncle. We should have moved on a week ago, when my wounds healed, and left him to his own devices, let his revenge be the end of him. I can't bring myself to do it. Laura tells me it's not a sign of weakness, but of strength, that I will not leave family behind._

_Laura is full of bullshit._

_Even if I could bring myself to leave, however, Boyd flat out refuses. He's been_ building _something in the woods, and I'm pretty sure it has wheels. He insists we can't leave the curing meat anyway._

_Boyd is also full of bullshit._

_The entire pack has lost its mind, honestly. Erica won't stop_ looking _at me and Isaac has been giving me the cold shoulder since I sent away the humans from BHC. He disappears at night and he smells like the woods near the camp when he returns. I think he's hoping for confirmation that they made it back alive and are safe._

_I don't know if I hope he finds it._

_I don't know how I'll feel if he doesn't._

_The scent is almost gone. He was only here two days._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

            If it had been Harris in the room, he would have already gotten fed up with the way Stiles had trailed off, staring hard at his clasped hands. He would have told Stiles to quit picking at his thumbnail, would probably have called in someone to remove him when Stiles drew blood worrying at his nail. Stiles would already be back in his room, pressed into one of the corners, promising himself over and over and over that he was never going to tell anyone here anything about his pack.

            But it wasn't Harris.

            The recorder lay dead and silent between them, and Morrell just _sat there_. He knew that she was waiting on him, that he hadn't given whatever subtle indication she'd learned that told her he was done. Whatever she wanted from him, she wanted it badly, wanted it enough to sit there for as long as she needed. It was almost funny, in a tragic sort of way, he found himself thinking. She literally had nothing better to do; the end of the world had laid waste to the idea of deadlines and petty jobs. She wasn't a cog in the workings of this camp, so no one would expect her to do anything other than sit here and wait for Stiles.

            For his part, he didn't want to tell her anything. Gerard had made sure that his entire future had been taken from him, and this woman wanted his past, and Stiles didn't know what would be left if he gave it to her. He was terrified the answer would be nothing.

            He'd very nearly told her to shove off a handful of times in the past few minutes, but every time he thought he could do it, his eyes flicked to the little square picture that sat face down between them. Lydia was here somewhere, alive, and if he just gave up they could both get out. If he gave up the past he had clung so fiercely to for so long, then Lydia would be left. They would be there for one another, after everything else had passed.

            "Can I-" he started, then clamped his mouth shut. She tipped her head, but she didn't interrupt, didn't try to nudge him in the right direction. She just waited, and it was maddening. "Can I tell you something, off the record?"

            Her nod indicated the recorder, which was still dormant on the table.

            "I don't want Lydia to be _harmed_ by anything I say," Stiles told her, firm and serious.

            "No one is interested in harming Lydia," Morrell assured him, meeting his eyes.

            "She's... _special_ ," Stiles clarified. "I mean, we never met anyone else who was immune."

            "Immune?" Morrell asked, sitting up a little straighter. Something warm and triumphant coiled in Stiles at the idea that there was something she didn't know already. He wondered if the camp remembered; they'd certainly known at one point. They'd known before Stiles left.

            "To the supernatural," he explained softly. " _All_ the supernatural. When the end hit, she took off running just like everyone else, and she ran right into a pack of werewolves. They left her for dead after they bit her, because the bite festered instead of healing. They thought she was going to die. _She_ thought she was going to die."

            Morrell's brow knit. "She's not a werewolf."

            "No," Stiles agreed. "The bite turns or it kills, but it didn't do either to her. Her body was able to fight off the infection completely. Her body fights off everything; infection, virus, poison, venom- everything. She and Jackson tested a lot of supernatural afflictions on her before they got here, and nothing affected her at all."

            From her expression, Stiles could tell that the camp hadn't told her a bit of any of that. It wasn't surprising. Morrell had come here already wanting to take them away, and Stiles was fairly certain that the camp's reluctance to send them off again had little to do with Stiles and a lot to do with Lydia.

            "If that sort of immunity could be replicated..." she breathed.

            "It can't," Stiles told her firmly, perhaps a little too hot. He pursed his lips and forced himself to relax a little before continuing. "I mean, she was safe, which was cool, everyone trusted she'd always be human... but it wasn't a good thing. It was still a curse."

            There was that head tilt again, and Stiles began to wonder if perhaps she really was a werewolf in disguise. It made him ache for his pack. "It protected her. That has to be a good thing."

            "Sure, and it was, when it was supernatural stuff going wrong," Stiles agreed. "But it wasn't just the supernatural that Lydia was immune to. Her body fought off _everything_ , every intrusion."

            "I don't...?" Morrell questioned.

            Stiles roughed an annoyed noise in the back of his throat and rolled his eyes to the side. "Her body fought off even human changes... like even pregnancies. Her body just- it attacked any foreign matter."

            "Oh," Morrell said, small and quiet and guilty. "Oh, Stiles..."

            He just shrugged. "It wasn't my problem, not really," Stiles told her, feeling drained after the admission. "It was Jackson's problem, and maybe no one else made the connection, but you can bet he did."

            "Connection?" Morrell asked, lost again. Stiles saw the moment realization dawned in her eyes, though, as she connected the same dots Jackson had the day he saw Scott's injury heal in a matter of seconds. "He thought a werewolf embryo could heal itself?"

            The nod Stiles gave spoke volumes of regret. "Yeah," he confirmed under his breath. "It was a really huge leap to make, but he, you know, he became _obsessed_ with it right then. We had a week 'til the full moon, and he wouldn't leave me alone about it. 'Take me there,' he'd tell me every time he saw me. 'I need to ask them.' And it was a terrible idea, you know? But he was just so _desperate_ , and we'd all seen the way Lydia looked at the kids around camp. So, I kind of had to."

            "Had to?" Morrell echoed.

            Stiles looked up, and then reached out to press the record button. "Take him to the wolves."

 

* * *

 

 

            The forest was clingy and foggy as they tromped through it, making as much noise as they could. Throat feeling scratchy, Stiles had given up shouting Derek's name for the most part. A dozen yards off to his right he could hear Jackson still calling, though he was beginning to sound worse for wear as well. It had started to drizzle two hours ago which was not making their journey any more pleasant.

            They were close, though, and Stiles mustered up whatever amount of caring he could manage, and raised his voice once more. "Derek!"

            Muted, soft silence met the call, and Stiles felt his heart sink a little more. He knew that they were close to the house, more than close enough for werewolf hearing to pick up on their shouting, if not their crashing around in the underbrush. A part of Stiles had hoped that Derek's pack had moved on, left Peter to his own bad decisions, and kept themselves safe. If they were gone, they couldn't have a bad run in with one of the camp hunting parties

            Another part of him hated the idea of them being gone. Yes, Jackson couldn't take the bite if they were gone, and that was _safer_ for them all, but it still sat like stones in Stiles' chest. They shouldn't have had to leave.

            This time when he raised his voice, he let a note of anger creep into it. " _Derek!_ "

            A low growl from behind him was all the warning he got before he found himself shoved up against the closest tree, a forearm so tight to his throat that he couldn't breathe, much less shout for help. Derek was very suddenly in his personal space, teeth bared, eyes narrowed. When he spoke it was gravel-low and full of irritation. "The hell do you think you're doing out here, kid?"

            Stiles scrabbled at the arm nearly crushing his windpipe and Derek eased off enough to let him speak. "Looking for you, furball," he rasped, sucking in a breath as quick as he could. "And I'm not a kid. Get off me."

            "No, you're worse," Derek hissed before releasing him, giving him one good, hard shove to the chest with his entire forearm in the process. "At least kids know better than to bring the whole forest down on themselves."

            "You're not the whole forest," Stiles retorted, brushing off his shoulders and rubbing a hand at his throat. "We've been out here forever. I thought maybe you..." He made a motion with one hand off into the distance.

            Derek understood, gave a little shake of his head. "I couldn't leave Peter behind. He's... my responsibility."

            "You're in the wrong section for him," Stiles informed him, almost automatically. "He's south west of here by at least two miles."

            "I know," Derek spat out, angry. "Where do you think we were when we heard you _idiots_ calling? What do you want?"

            Stiles blinked at the abrupt question, then straightened and began looking for Jackson. The other man was nowhere in sight, and Stiles felt all of his skin prickle at the utter silence. "Where is Jackson?"

            Derek tipped his head and for a moment Stiles thought he was going to ask him who Jackson was, but before he opened his mouth he realized that Derek was listening. He noted the slight lack of focus in his eyes, the way his face smoothed a little in thought, and the shift of attention as it went away from Stiles and then returned. "Erica has him."

            "Well, what I want is for you to talk to him," Stiles said firmly. He jabbed a finger into Derek's chest, which earned him a low warning noise that he completely ignored. "Don't give me that, you _owe us_."

            "I don't- whatever," Derek snapped, shoving Stiles in the correct direction. "I assume you're going to stay in the woods shouting if I don't."

            "Sounds accurate," Stiles replied as he allowed himself to be moved.

            A short distance away, closer than Stiles was comfortable with considering he hadn't heard a scuffle at all, they found Jackson and Erica. She had him on the ground, a knee against his throat, hands pinned. From the rasp of his breath, Stiles could tell she was only just giving him enough room to stay alive. As soon as Stiles realized it he was at her side, shouldering her off of Jackson; or attempting to, as he found that moving her anywhere she didn't want to be was very much akin to trying to have an argument with a boulder.

            "Let him up!" Stiles insisted through ground teeth. Erica snarled at him, unimpressed, but Derek silenced her with a sharp noise. Relenting, she allowed Stiles to remove her from Jackson, who began coughing as he surged into a sitting position.

            "I'm going... to kick... your ass..." Jackson gasped, face scrunched up in disdain.

            "Jackson," Stiles warned. With one hand he helped Jackson to his feet and then put himself between Jackson and Erica. "You wanted to find them, here they are. Try not to be an asshole while you ask them for favors."

            "Favors?" Derek echoed, sounding very alarmed. Stiles was too busy glaring at Jackson to try to assure the wolf of anything.

            "Me? But-" Jackson began.

            "You," Stiles cut him off. "If you're not ready to say it, you're definitely not ready to do it." He folded his arms across his chest and sat back on one hip, stance screaming stubborn expectation.

            Jackson scowled, but he turned to face Derek. The two glared at one another, lips pursed, before Jackson finally rasped a sigh and shook his head as if all of this were too ridiculous to even deal with right now. "I want-" He straightened his shoulders and steeled himself. "I want the bite. Please," he lumped onto the end, the word sounding uncomfortable on his tongue.

            "No," Derek responded flatly, then turned his attention to Stiles. "You brought him all the way out here and endangered both your lives to ask that when you knew the answer would be no?"

            "I didn't _know_ ," Stiles remarked, then immediately waved his hand to brush aside the issue. "Look, he's got a good reason, if you just-"

            "No," Derek repeated. It was the stubborn, no-nonsense voice people used when they didn't want someone to argue with them, and Stiles didn't pay any attention to it at all.

            "If we don't come back, Scott will send someone straight to you," Stiles told him, low and serious and it wasn't exactly a lie despite that Scott had no idea he and Jackson were out here alone. They weren't scheduled for an actual patrol.

           Derek hesitated, looking at Stiles as though trying to gauge him. "You're trying to _coerce_ me?" he asked, incredulous, his pale eyes narrowing.

            "No!" Stiles protested, even though he actually was. "I'm not- I'm asking you nicely." He rubbed a hand over the top of his head in frustration and let out a rough breath. "But, you know, coercion is plan B."

            Snorting, Derek motioned to Erica and she stepped back away from them, ready to follow him away from the humans. "You can stay out here," he told them sharply. "But you're going to get yourselves killed."

            "Derek," Stiles pleaded as Derek turned away from them, not really sure what he was asking. Derek tensed, but he didn't turn back around to face him. "Can I just- Can I talk to you alone for a minute? Please."

            Erica made a noise of disgust as Derek sighed. Though he still didn't turn, he muttered an agreement and began to move away from Erica and Jackson both. Stiles straightened as he realized he'd gotten his opportunity. When he looked to Jackson, his squadmate just flashed him a venomous scowl, so he rolled his eyes and trotted after Derek's retreating form. A flutter of worry brushed across his thoughts for a moment, over leaving Jackson alone with Erica, but he let it pass. He was already doing enough; if Jackson managed to get himself killed in the next five minutes, he probably deserved it.

            As soon as they were out of sight, Derek turned on Stiles. "What," he bit out, and even Stiles could hear the strain in his voice.

            He sighed, moved a little closer to Derek than was strictly necessary- Derek could probably hear him talking from half a mile away. "Okay, look," he began, catching Derek's gaze. "If you're going to just abandon us to sink or swim with this whole werewolf thing, at least leave us with the tools we need to survive it. Scott doesn't need you to babysit him, and neither does Jackson, and we're not going to send anyone after you for doing it. We're not going to give you away. But this is going to be really hard for Scott to do alone. He'll be Omega without someone else."

            "Then you take it," Derek suggested softly.

            Stiles swallowed, stomach swooping at the thought. For an instant he wanted it, could feel the power being a werewolf would give him, the heightened senses and strength. It was overwhelming, but only for an instant before he pushed it down and shook his head. When he spoke his words caught on the tightness of his throat. "It has to be Jackson."

            "It doesn't," Derek murmured, and Stiles had to look away from him then.

            Stiles had been busy, been keeping himself busy on purpose to keep thoughts of the wolf pack at bay. He hadn't wanted to admit to Scott that he would have stayed longer, wanted desperately to learn more from them, but he couldn't hide it from himself. He'd been fascinated by Derek from the moment he'd come up against him in the clearing and the words _we don't kill humans_ had fallen from his lips. Now, faced with him close and quiet, Stiles could almost imagine that Derek's gentle objection reflected a similar fascination.

            "You don't want him to be alone," Derek continued. Stiles could swear the werewolf twitched closer by infinitesimal increments as he spoke, but he couldn't bring himself to put more distance between them now. He could feel the heat radiating from Derek's body. "I get it. But it doesn't have to be that guy." His voice dropped low and Stiles closed his eyes. "It could be you."

            It took three tries to clear his throat enough to speak, and even then his voice was thin and shaky. He wondered if Derek could smell his attraction, could pinpoint it for what it was as Scott had been unable to do. Quite frankly it was embarrassing, but Stiles ploughed ahead with every ounce of resolution he could muster. "It can't," he managed. He let out a heavy breath and opened his eyes. "Jackson doesn't want it for himself, okay?"

            Derek's eyes narrowed and Stiles could _feel_ him separating them back to their own sides of the whole mess. The distance twisted uncomfortably in his gut. "He's not doing it for Scott."

            "No, he's not," Stiles agreed. "I didn't- this isn't really my place, and I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but Jackson- he's doing this for his wife, Lydia." He knew that he was stumbling over his words, but he was grasping for the right ones, the ones that would convince Derek that this was right. "She can't- her body- they've-"

            "Stiles," Derek interrupted, the low warning tone sending a bolt of something hot through Stiles. "Spit it out."

            "She can't have kids," Stiles blurted, like ripping off a bandaid. He shook his head, feeling miserable for telling Lydia's secret to what amounted to a stranger, though he knew it was necessary. "She's not _sterile_ , her body just attacks anything foreign. Jackson thinks a werewolf baby could heal fast enough to survive."

            Derek's brows knit and Stiles could see the horror on his face plain as day. "Do you have any idea how painful that would be?"

            "Yeah," Stiles admitted on a breath, barely audible. "I know. And I think he knows too."

            "You don't even know if it would work," Derek accused.

            Stiles met his eyes, kept his voice as even as possible. "Do you think it would?"

            For a moment Derek just regarded Stiles without a word and Stiles thought perhaps he wouldn't answer. Perhaps he would just leave Stiles there for even considering the notion, for expecting that he could use the gift of werewolf powers toward an end. It was on the tip of Stiles' tongue to apologize to Derek, to just turn back and tell Jackson that it was no use, good game, thanks for playing, and drag him back to camp. He got as far as opening his mouth when Derek responded.

            "Maybe." He gave a little shake of his head, the sort that expressed how terrible of an idea it was, and dropped his gaze.

            Swallowing, Stiles reached out, let one knuckle brush against Derek's shoulder to get back his attention. The werewolf was warm, far warmer than Stiles had been expecting. "Please, Derek. I- He loves her, and this may be their only shot at that happily-ever-after, 2.5-kids-and-a-puppy life. She deserves that, all right? She deserves the whole world."

            "You love her," Derek said, and it wasn't a question or an accusation, and maybe that was worse. It was Stiles' turn to drop his gaze, give a huffy little laugh that sounded more like pain than it did amusement.

            "Yeah, I did," he admitted. "She's my friend now, and I still care what happens to her. So are you gonna do this for them or what?"

            "No," Derek responded plainly. He watched Stiles' lips become a thin line, watched Stiles clench his jaw and roll his eyes and turn halfway back toward Jackson before he continued. "I'll do it for you, though."

            Confused, Stiles turned back to face him. "I don't want the bite," he said slowly.

            Derek's brow quirked up and Stiles heard Scott's voice in his memory- _It's when you lie._ If Derek heard his heart pick up, he didn't mention it. "I'll turn him," Derek clarified, holding Stiles' gaze with a seriousness that should have been unsettling but only caused a flutter of heat low in Stiles' belly. "Because you're asking. But he comes back with me, to heal."

            "Okay," Stiles agreed before Derek could take back the offer. "He won't like that, but I can convince him it's necessary."

            "You should tell him that the bite could kill him," Derek warned. "It could go either way and there's no way to tell until after it's done. You make sure he's willing to take that risk."

            "I will," he assured him, then shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Do I need- I mean, will I have to stay as well? Like with Scott?" He wasn't sure how the note of hope slithered into his tone, but he didn't regret it. He also didn't miss the way Derek swallowed thickly at the suggestion. He wondered if Derek was thinking about Stiles being in his bed again- Stiles certainly was.

            "No," Derek bit out. "I'm going to trust you to keep your mouth shut, for your friend's sake." There was a moment during which Stiles gave consideration to telling Derek that he would keep the wolf's secret for _Derek's_ sake, but it passed a heartbeat later when Derek continued. "Does his mate know he is doing this?"

            Stiles shook his head, giving a little lift of his shoulders. "I don't know."

            "You don't know or you don't want to know?" Derek asked. It made Stiles uncomfortable how much it sounded like an accusation.

            "I didn't ask," Stiles responded, trying not to sound too testy. "Because it's not my business."

            "She should know," Derek told him, but it wasn't quite a demand, and Stiles tipped his head.

            "Is that a condition?" he inquired softly. "Of Jackson getting bitten?"

            Derek's eyes tracked over Stiles, taking him in, assessing him, before he finally took in a deep breath and let it out heavily. "No," he decided at last. "I agreed to give it, and it's his decision to take it or not. But she _should_ know, Stiles."

            Of course Stiles knew what Derek was telling him, even if Derek wouldn't say it aloud. He wanted Stiles to tell her what was going on, despite - or perhaps because - Jackson wouldn't tell her himself. His decision was going to affect her just as much, if not more, than it would Jackson. Stiles knew that Jackson should have spoken with her about this before they left, but Stiles also knew that Jackson was unlikely to discuss his feelings with anyone, even Lydia. "She should," he agreed softly. "I think Jackson just didn't want to give her false hope."

            At that, Derek gave a small nod. "Okay," he conceded. Without another word, he just left, heading back toward where they had left Jackson and Erica. Stiles hesitated, surprised at the abrupt end of the conversation, then followed after.

            Jackson was exactly where they had left him, lounged back against one of the thicker trees and fiddling with something on his wrist. He glanced up when Derek neared and Stiles saw the flick of his eyes off to the right that told him where Erica was hiding. Derek must have seen it too and he put himself between her and Stiles without a word. When she melted from the underbrush, it was with a hooded smile.

            "So?" she inquired before Jackson even had a chance.

            "We'll take him back with us," Derek told her evenly, though his eyes never left Jackson's. "If he wants it, he can have it."

            Erica's lip curled a little. "So, what? We're just-"

            "Yes," Derek told her sharply, clearly the end of the discussion. Stiles felt his eyes widen- alpha looked good on Derek already.

            "Really?" Jackson asked, small and hushed, and Stiles realized he'd fully expected to be turned away at best. He could see the taut line of Jackson's shoulders and the faint tremble in his hands he was trying to hide with the way he was still picking at his wrist.

            Derek stepped closer, into Jackson's personal space, and forced him to meet his eyes. "I'm going to make this very clear, human," he said, low and dangerous enough that even Stiles' skin prickled at the threat from across the small, open space. "I'm not giving you the bite because you asked. I'm not giving it to you because I'm _nice_ or because I think you'll be _nice_."

            Jackson swallowed, the sound of it thick in the air between them. "Then why?" he managed. Stiles' eyes flicked to his hands, where he could see that Jackson had stopped shaking.

            "Because Stiles is right," Derek said simply, drawing away from Jackson again, just a little. "If we take off, Scott becomes a lone wolf, which is not remotely as suave as it sounds. He'll be weakened, and the full moons will be harder to survive, much less stay in control for. So you come with us, you take the bite, and if you don't die, you get to go home and maybe not take a silver bullet."

            He patted Jackson on the chest with the flat of his hand and motioned to Erica with the tip of his head that they were leaving. She gave both humans a withering look before she shifted, dropping to all fours and disappearing from view almost before they had registered the change. Stiles felt his skin crawl at how silent her movement was; only seconds passed before he could no longer hear her. Derek threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure Jackson would follow.

            Stiles offered Jackson a thin smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine," he offered with as much cheer as he could muster. Derek's _if you don't die_ lingered heavy in the air still. "I'll see you tomorrow sometime."

            Fingers snagged at his elbow as he made to leave, and he halted. Jackson fidgeted, looking put out despite that he had been the one to stop Stiles. Finally he took a breath and without actually looking at Stiles said: "Take care of her, okay?" He scowled the moment the words were out of his mouth, but Stiles could see the worry when their eyes met. "If I don't... you know. If it doesn't work."

            Stiles clenched his jaw, frowning. Pulling his elbow roughly from Jackson's grasp, he jabbed a finger into Jackson's chest, hard. He didn't care if it bruised; Jackson would heal if it worked, if the infection harmonized with his body rather than burning it. "You'll be lucky if I never mention to Lydia that you even _suggested_ that," he hissed. "Your dumb ass had better be back at camp by tomorrow night."

            Jackson's scowl returned and he swatted at Stiles' hand. For a moment they glared, and then a piercing whistle from Derek broke the moment. Stiles looked over and Derek's attention slid sideways until their eyes met. A shiver crept down Stiles' spine and he swallowed before giving a tiny nod to Derek.

            A moment later, Stiles was alone in the forest, wondering how he had gotten himself into this mess.

           

* * *

 

            _There's a week left until the full moon, and we shouldn't be in this position. Peter should be here, leading us, and we should be halfway to the mountains by now._

_Instead, there's a turnwolf in the kitchen that Erica is livid about, Isaac and Boyd went for a run alone after a load of bullshit about being just fine, and Laura has been in my room three times tonight trying to start conversations about my 'new hobby.' I've never had to lock a door on a pack mate before._

_As if it wasn't bad enough, his scent is all over_ _Jackson_ _, all over the forest worse than before... all over my own clothes as well, and it's the last thing I needed today. It shouldn't make a difference. He's just one lousy human, one stupid, righteous human and I know it's the full moon getting to me, because I know I'd never be this bothered otherwise. I wouldn't care, otherwise._

_And you're only  a journal, so you'll never hear my heartbeat say I'm lying._

_I just don't know what to do. I've never seen a human throw their lot in so readily with a super, even if they used to be friends. They treat us as abominations, as a plague to be eradicated, and they always have._

_I've never had a human look at me like that- like I was a person, too._

_Maybe it's stupid, to want that. But I do._

 

* * *

 

            The library. It was one of Stiles' favorite haunts in the recovered town, with its three long floors and shelves of worn books like a forest of knowledge. His own home town's library had only had one floor with more reference material than it had stories. Sometimes, as he leaned against one of the towering shelves of books on the third floor of the Beacon Hills library, a hardcover mystery novel open in his lap, he caught himself thinking that the apocalypse hadn't been all bad. He would never admit it out loud, but he was a little grateful that the end had meant a new beginning in a more fortunate town.

            Beacon Hills wasn't huge by any means, and Stiles knew that the first floor of the building had once served as the town's records archive, but it was still impressive to him. Gerard's people had converted the first floor of the building into his own records keeping archive, and it was to there that the teams coming in from their patrols reported after a cursory examination from the perimeter crew. Usually Stiles would help Scott give their debrief with the rest of the team and then Stiles would stay behind to wind down with a book. Somehow he figured he wouldn't make it to the portion of the science fiction section he'd been eating his way through slowly but surely.

            When he arrived, Lydia, Elias, and Gregory, the papers part of their unit, were sitting at one of the tables, a map spread between them and the soft sound of their voices drifting to greet him. Gregory glanced up as the door opened, and gave a little, mock salute. Stiles smiled, and smiled at Lydia when she looked up as well.

            "Where's Jackson?" Lydia asked before he'd even crossed the room to him. He felt his stomach sink a little, but he shrugged.

            "He's just making a few laps around the perimeter fence to run off some energy," Stiles lied glibly. "He said he'd be in shortly."

            Elias turned his laughter into a small, choked cough as everyone looked at him. "What?" he asked. "Like Jackson does anything he doesn't have to do?" He scoffed and began folding the map they'd been looking at with Lydia. "Your whole team's lost its damn mind, Stiles."

            "Maybe he's out looking for that alpha that bit Raul," Gregory suggested slowly, picking up his hands from where they were spread on the map so that Elias could take the rest of it. "Wasn't he friends with Raul's team?"

            Everyone sobered some, and it occurred to Stiles in the moment of silence that Peter was not, in fact, an alpha anymore. His stomach turned over; a beta's bite wouldn't turn a human. The silver bullet that had put Raul down had been completely unnecessary and he would never be able to tell anyone without revealing what he knew about the werewolves and _why_.

            "I think he's probably had enough of werewolves," Stiles said dryly, though it sounded strained even to his own ears. Lydia made a face while no one but Stiles was looking at her.

            Since they hadn't seen anything of interest while out, Stiles' account of his patrol with Jackson was brief. Neither Elias nor Gregory seemed to notice, but when he was finished he caught Lydia's eye and twitched his head slightly toward the door. He needed to tell her about Jackson, but not in front of the others. They had elected to keep Scott's transformation secret from as many people as possible, including the rest of their unit. She just nodded and immediately ceased paying attention to him for the rest of the discussion.

            He left knowing that she would slip away and follow him in a few moments. If there were more information to file she might have taken longer, or else had to leave Gregory and Elias to page through the records already on the shelves to file any creatures spotted or seen along with similar accounts. Observations and information about the creatures would be put to paper in case the camp needed to deal with another of the same later. If it was an immediate threat, Elias would take the relevant information to Gerard (or more likely to Chris, his son) and the camp and the teams would be put on alert.

            As it was, Stiles stopped just outside the doors of the library and a few minutes later Lydia pushed through the double doors. He didn't even get out an apology before she socked him in the arm hard enough to bruise.

            "Don't lie to me, Stiles," she hissed, grabbing his arm right over where she had punched. She began dragging him in the direction of the hospital while he protested. "Where is my husband?"

            "Lydia, oh my god, let go, let-" She squeezed harder and the rest of his protest was swallowed by a yelp. "He's fine!"

            "He is not _fine_ ," Lydia snapped, stopping mid-step to turn on him. He managed to put a step of distance between them. "If he was fine, you'd have told us where he really is. Eli's right- Jackson doesn't take jogs around the perimeter. So where is he?"

            Stiles swallowed and tried for a moment to think of some way to get out of telling her where Jackson was while they were in such a public place. He knew that look, though, and when she crossed her arms and leaned on one hip to wait, he lowered his voice. "Look, don't be mad, okay?" he pleaded. "Jackson went to see the werewolves."

            "He _what_?" Lydia interrupted, with way too much volume for keeping secrets. "And you didn't stop him?"

            Shifting uncomfortably, Stiles unconsciously took another step back. "There's a good possibility I took him to them," he admitted with a wince.

            "You _what_?" Stiles dodged Lydia's next swipe with upheld hands, ready to catch her wrists if need be. When she failed to connect she stopped and stood up straight, taking a deep breath to calm herself, and Stiles could practically see her counting to ten inside her head. "You took Jackson out to a pack of werewolves, after what they did to Scott?"

            "They didn't do that to Scott!" Stiles protested before he could consider how bad of an idea it was to argue this particular point. As long as he was digging, he decided to go for broke. "And even if they did bite him, that's... sort of what Jackson wanted!"

            The way Lydia held completely still, not even breathing, was more terrifying than her mock attempts at bodily harm. Stiles stood firm and waited, watching her eyes flicker through the emotions, processing. He knew she was angry, that she was going to keep being angry for a while, but he also knew that she would get over it. She would want to know _why_ Jackson did anything as stupid as taking the bite, and then Stiles could explain. Until then she was a ticking bomb, detonated by any interruption.

            "So let me get this straight," she slowly, in such a level tone that Stiles knew he was in enough deep shit that he might never get out again. "You went out with my husband on the pretense of performing a patrol for the safety of this camp and instead the two of you somehow located a pack of lethal werewolves that were supposed to be long gone so that he could ask them to turn him into one of them, and then you came back to camp alone and lied to me about it? Does that about cover it?"

            "Well- ah- when you put it like that," he hedged, pulling a face that spoke of pain. He dropped his gaze so she couldn't see the guilt.

            "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, but it was quiet still. He could tell she was just as aware as he was that they were standing in the middle of the street where they could be overheard. "What were you thinking? What were either of you thinking?"

            For a moment, Stiles considered not telling her. It wasn't his business; it was Jackson's business, and Jackson should be the one to tell her. He should have told her before they left, but she would never have let him leave. Stiles considered that perhaps that would have been better, but what was done was done, and he had all but promised Derek that he would let Lydia in on the secret.

            That didn't mean he had to meet her eyes while he said it. "He was thinking it was for you," he told her softly, heard her breath catch. He continued miserably. "He wants kids- you both want kids, Lydia. He thought maybe you could have one, if it was a werewolf, if it could heal fast enough. I thought Scott's gonna need a pack to get through this, so it just made sense."

            When she didn't answer, his eyes flicked up and his chest constricted to see the wet shine in her eyes. "You are both such idiots," she murmured. He wasn't sure if she said it because of what they had done or why they had done it, or maybe because he was touching on subjects he knew were old, deep hurts. "I need to see him, before he does this."

            "Lydia, no-"

            "Stiles," Lydia said firmly. "I need to. He shouldn't be doing this, and you know it."

            "It's already done," Stiles told her, glad she couldn't hear his heartbeat. He had no idea if Derek had done it or not, if Derek would wait to see if Stiles showed up, or if Stiles would show up with Lydia. "It's six-miles-and-change out and it's already getting dark. Peter's still on the loose, and even if he wasn't, he's not the only threat out there. Jackson is safe where he is, so let's just keep calm, okay? I'm going back out tomorrow to fetch him, and you can come with me then."

            She pursed her lips as he spoke until they were a thin line. When he finished, she crossed her arms and he thought she was going to insist on going no matter what, but instead she said: "Fine. But you are telling Scott right now and so help me if he already knew."

            "He doesn't," Stiles admitted. That didn't make him feel better. He knew he should definitely have talked to Scott before leaving, but he also knew that Scott would have told him no. Scott would have done stupid things to stop them, because Scott was protective of his team. They were his family, in a way- his pack, and Stiles felt the increasingly familiar pang of worry about whether or not they were doing the right things in regards to supernaturals. "Do you know where he is?"

            "Where else?" Lydia said, uncrossing her arms after having won at least one demand.

            Of course he knew where. The past two days had seen Allison in the hospital more and more as she prepared for the big day, and with Scott not leading the patrols any more he had been sticking to her side like glue. It was good for both of them, Stiles thought, because Allison needed Scott around for support just as much as Scott needed to be around her to anchor him to his humanity.

            Stiles gave a nod that said _fair enough_ , and motioned for Lydia to precede him.

 

* * *

 

 

            The soft knock on the door broke the flow of the story and for a heartbeat Morrell wondered how much trouble she would be in for committing murder. Stiles cut himself off mid-sentence, amber-brown eyes widening as his body tensed like he was going to fight. In the next instant Morrell was on her feet telling Stiles it was okay before she moved for the door. The scent of fresh bread and warmed meat met her at the entrance but she used her body to block the opening.

           Outside the door, the camp resident assigned to bring them food gave her a small, surprised look. "Food," he offered, holding up a tray with enough food for her and Stiles both. "You... do want it, right?"

            She flashed him a smile and held out her hands. "Of course," she said, though it sounded more like _scram_. "Thank you."

            Catching the hint, he passed over the food and scrambled to get away from the room. She watched him go for a second and then pulled the food into the room and let the door click shut. When she turned, she found Stiles staring steadily at her. The panic, at least, had faded, replaced with a certain sort of caution, as though he had suddenly realized where he was and what he was doing.

            Morrell paced back over to the table and set down the tray along one edge. She reached over and clicked off the recording device, not taking her eyes from Stiles'. "They just brought us some food," she informed him, keeping her tone even like she would for a wild animal. "Still warm."

            He shifted, uncertainty written in every line of his body, and she took her seat so that she was not towering over him. He relaxed just a fraction at that. Then his eyes clouded, just like that, and he looked away from her, toward the food. She knew that he wasn't looking at the food; his sight may have been in line with it, but whatever it was he saw was not in the room. Whatever had his eyes flicking back and forth as he watched, it was nothing she could see or hear or touch.

            "Stiles," she murmured, not quite a demand. Yet.

            His head ticked and she heard the shackles rattle as his hands clasped together. "No," he mumbled under his breath, eyes shuttering closed. His brow furrowed and his shoulders hunched. She wasn't sure if he was talking to her or whatever demon had found him.

            "Stiles," she repeated, more firm this time. He flinched and guilt zinged through her like static. "There's food here for you, Stiles. You need to eat."

            "Need to eat," he echoed. She hated when he did this, just began repeating what she said regardless of whether it made sense. He swallowed thickly and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the floor.

            She looked over at the food, piecing together what it probably was. "There's goat and cheese today," she offered.

            "Goat cheese," Stiles murmured, brow furrowing and then smoothing. She waited patiently, watching him as his eyes flickered back and forth at nothing, unblinking. The stillness with which he held himself in these moments was becoming familiar, even the way he didn't breathe so much as exist. He was cycling, as near as she could tell, and he would come back to her soon.

            Finally, almost a full five minutes later, Stiles' eyes cleared and he focused on the food in front of them as if mystified over how it had appeared. When he looked up and caught her eyes on him, she smiled. Reaching over, she plucked one of the apples from the plate and passed it over to him. "Eat," she ordered quietly.

            Stiles bit into the fruit without taking his eyes from her, looking for all the world like he suspected she had performed magic to create the food. She could see he was hungry, though, his previously methodical manner of eating discarded in favor of speed. After a moment of only watching, she joined in, taking one of the thick slices of meat and cutting it into bits. It was tough, had been cooked too long under the wrong conditions, and she found herself missing the stewpot over the open fire she and Jane used on the road.

            For a while they ate in silence. She let Stiles select what he wanted from the plate first, smiled when he always left equal portions for both of them. It can't have been easy. She knew most of what he'd been fed during his internment was hard tack, the rough, tasteless kind this camp produced en masse for the patrols to carry with them. This - the slice of meat, the baked potato with hand-churned butter and rough-ground salt, the two little ruddy, brown apples - would probably seem extravagant if he were in a state to appreciate it.

            He wasn't, and she didn't feel like trying to bring him around for something inconsequential to what she needed. It had been a long day, and he'd given her a lot to think about already. Not enough to appease the council that was refusing to let Jane take Stiles and Lydia away from here, but enough for Morrell to begin piecing together what they knew with what they guessed.

            They had known Scott had been bitten and that it was involuntary, but not that Allison had knowingly hidden him from the camp. They had known Lydia was human, but not that she couldn't take the bite; or that Jackson had taken it willingly for her. They had known Stiles was human, but not that he had refused the offer of a bite. They knew that the Hale pack left the BHC area at the full moon, but no one knew the circumstances that had caused Jackson and Lydia and Stiles to put themselves into position to go with them. Everyone Jane had spoken to assured her that Stiles would never have left his father.

            "Stiles?" she asked, soft and low. When his eyes flicked up to her, they were clear and bright. "Did you tell Scott about the bite? Jackson's bite?"

            He blinked owlishly, and his eyes lost focus, but in the good way. "Yeah," he replied, like he was just figuring it out himself. "Scott was _livid_ when we told him. He kept saying no one _wanted_ the bite, but I think he was the only one who didn't want it, you know? Like after everyone saw that he was still... Scott. Who wouldn't want super senses and speed healing and all that _strength_?" He loosed a brittle laugh.

            "It sounds enticing," she agreed, barely a murmur so that she wouldn't interrupt him.

            "Yeah." He sounded far away again. "But, I mean, he got over it. I explained why he did it, and Lydia confirmed it even though she was still pissed. I think Allison agreeing was what really sold it to him, especially when she concluded all by herself that he could use a pack. We'd all seen omega wolves, and they were never... right. They were always a little off, a little-" He twirled his finger around his ear instead of finishing the sentence. "She told him a pack mate might help stabilize him."

            "And he agreed?" Morrell asked.

            "Of course, yeah," Stiles told her, scoffing. Everyone knew- well, everyone _had_ known that much about werewolf packs. "So I mean, it wasn't the right decision, it was never the right decision for Jackson to take the bite, but there was a lot of logic backing it up. It was one of those 'it seemed like a good idea' moments. Allison was having a kid, Lydia wasn't having kids, Jackson was an adult who could make his own choices, we already knew we could hide a wolf with the right set of circumstances, Scott was turning alone... it just made sense, I guess."

            She nodded along with what he was saying. It didn't make sense, of course. It would have been hard enough hiding one werewolf from the camp, much less two of them. "And then?" she prompted.

            Stiles gave a little shrug. "And then nothing. He wasn't the type to blame people when it wasn't their fault, and Jackson wasn't there. He would never have told Lydia that she couldn't have a chance at having what he and Allison had. So he just told us to be safe about it, please just keep everyone _safe_. He just kept saying that _word_ like anything was ever going to be _safe_ again here."

            "It wasn't," she said, not quite a suggestion but not quite a question either.

            Laughter barked from Stiles, harsh and cold. "Of course not, of course it wasn't safe."

            "So you left," she guessed. "Because it wasn't safe?"

            Stiles shook his head, just a tiny bit, and picked at the crumbs on the tray in front of him. "No, that's not why we left."

            "Then why?" she asked. "We know that you left, but no one can tell us why."

            The look he gave her was puzzled, his head tipping slightly to one side. "Why?" he echoed.

            "You, Jackson, and Lydia left with the pack at the full moon," Morrell reminded him, afraid he was slipping again so soon. "I can guess why Jackson and Lydia went... but you had no reason. Your dad was here, Scott was here, you're human... so why?"

            "We had to leave," Stiles told her, though it seemed more like a revelation, as if he couldn't figure out why they had to leave, either. His brows drew together, his shoulders hunching up a little. He shook his head, even though she'd said nothing for him to deny. "We left because they caught Peter and they were just going to kill him, but he told them."

            "Told them?" Morrell echoed, raking through her memories of the documents she'd been allowed to read through so far for any mention of what Peter may have told the party that captured him. There was nothing.

            Stiles looked up, met her gaze, and she could see the betrayal as fresh as if it had just happened. It was so quiet she could hear the click of his throat as he swallowed. "He told them there was a wolf in the camp. He told them about Scott."

 

* * *

 

 

            The corridor flickered around her with the light of the candle lantern in her hand. It might have been eerie, the darkness swallowing everything behind her, the sound of footsteps clattering on ahead of her as she walked, except that she'd spent most of the last ten years on the road amongst all of the things that went bump in the night. An empty corridor was not high on her list of terrifying things.

            In her other hand she clutched a bowl of strawberries. They were in season and the camp had been turning their scouting groups into gathering squads during daylight hours. She'd visited the berry fields north of the camp with a squad the day before and was impressed at how expansive they were, at how well the fields did with the minimal amount of protection afforded to them. She wondered if the orchards she could see in the distance were similarly protected, but she hadn't been allowed near them to find out. They did let her pick a few of the plump, vibrant-red berries to take back with her.

            Instead of eating them, she stored them in the coolest part of the room she'd been given for their stay. If she was lucky, the sight of the berries would coax the girl into focus, if only for a few moments. All Jane needed was a few moments alone with her while she was even semi-lucid.

            The door was plain, completely unadorned with anything to differentiate it from any of the dozen others she had passed on her way. The number on the side read D317 in fading silver letters, and Jane waved to the guard sitting idly in a chair before knocking just below the numbers. She knew it didn't matter if she knocked; the occupant wouldn't answer. Maybe she wasn't capable of answering anymore, so as soon as she knocked she twisted the handle, knowing it would be unlocked.

            There was no reason to lock the door of a prisoner who had no will to leave.

            When she nudged open the door the soft noise of her greeting stuck in her throat at what she saw. On the bed sat two girls, one with long red hair, one with black. The dark-haired girl Jane had only seen once before, the day she and Morrell had arrived, but she knew who she was. Everyone in the camp knew who Allison Argent was. The girl was silent as she watched Jane slip into the room, holding up the small wooden bowl of fruit in explanation.

            The other girl, the redhead, didn't give any indication that she noticed Jane's arrival. She sat unnaturally still, her right hand clasped between both of Allison's, her eyes blank and fixed upon nothing. Catatonia, Jane's mind supplied. It had been the same way every time Jane had been allowed to visit Lydia.

            "You're not supposed to be down here," Allison said softly, no particular malice in the words. She remained seated, hands still clasping Lydia's in her lap.

            "Neither are you," Jane returned, just as gently. "I won't tell if you won't."

            Allison considered this for a moment before turning her gaze to Lydia. Jane let her, stood silently with the candle lamp and the berries and just waited. After a time, Allison let out the breath she'd been holding and carefully set Lydia's hand back in her own lap. Lydia made no move to shift or readjust, and Jane's skin prickled.

            Getting to her feet, Allison held out her hand for the bowl of berries. Jane didn't hesitate to hand them to her, watching as she set them on the bed beside Lydia. "There are strawberries, Lydia," she said softly. It sounded like surrender, not hope. "They're real."

            Jane's brow furrowed at that, but she remained silent as Allison smoothed a hand over Lydia's head and pressed a quick kiss to her hair. She murmured a soft goodbye and then began herding Jane toward the exit. It was frustrating, to say the least, but Jane allowed herself to be moved. At least Allison would talk to her.

            The door clicked shut behind them after Allison gave one final glance back. Jane could see the weariness in her eyes, the slouch of her shoulders. "What are you doing down here?" Allison murmured, drawing Jane away from the guard despite that the guy looked to be resting his eyes a little too intensely to be able to hear them.

            "Bringing strawberries to your friend in there," Jane told her evenly.

            Allison gave her a look that said she didn't believe that bullshit for a moment. "I would suggest not lying to me, Ms. Jane," she told her. "You may have brought strawberries but that's not why you're here."

            A smile twitched at Jane's lips. "My apologies," she conceded. "I came to speak to Ms. Whittemore."

            Hurt flashed in Allison's eyes, sharp and bright, and the muscles in her jaw jumped before she spoke. "You know she won't talk to you."

            Jane nodded, because she did understand. When she had first been allowed in to see Lydia, they had told her that despite the crescent scar across her throat, the girl could speak. She hadn't, not in the two years she'd been incarcerated in the belly of the hospital, but Jane had been officially assured by the council that she _could_. She had been told colloquially that they'd had to move her to a part of the hospital they could sound proof against her shrieking screams in the dead of night.

            She didn't say any of this, though. She just tipped her head a little and gave a sad smile. "You still come down here," she pointed out, as gently as she was able.

            Swallowing, Allison looked away from her. "That's different," she bit out. "She knows me."

            "Does she?" Jane asked, and she knew it was cruel but she didn't take it back.

            Allison closed her eyes and let out a heavy breath. "No," she said after a moment. "She did, once. She knew me before she left with them."

            "And now?" Jane prompted, and Allison looked up to her.

            "Now she thinks I'm one of the others." It might have been easier to hear if she had been heartbroken over it, but Jane could see that she'd accepted it long ago. It was a scar, rather than a fresh wound. "A hallucination. She doesn't think I'm real."

            Jane managed not to frown. "How do you know?"

            "She told me. The first time I visited," Allison responded, leaning back against the wall opposite Jane. "She hasn't said a word to me since... but I can see it, in the way she looks at me. In the way she _doesn't_ look at me, really. Past me, through me, near me... but she doesn't look _at_ me anymore."

            Jane hummed an agreement, feeling guiltier than she expected at hearing the admission. Even before Stiles admitted to it, she had known that Allison was involved in the situation, just like everyone was involved in the situation. Since her arrival at the camp, she had been told in hushed tones by several denizens that Allison's husband had been one of _those_ wolves. Jane hadn't had to ask which wolves; there was only one pack associated with the Beacon Hills Camp.

            For a time they sat in silence, Allison watching the flicker of the candlelight and Jane watching Allison. She wasn't going to press the girl one way or the other; though she held out hope that Allison would want to talk to her in private. There was so much the outside world didn't know about what had occurred here, and Stiles was only proving that more each day.

            "You-" The words stuck in her throat and she swallowed to clear it before looking hesitantly at Jane. "You've been watching Stiles, haven't you?"

            "When I have time," Jane answered.

            "And he-" she hesitated. "How is he?"

            Jane's brow furrowed. "You've visited him," Jane said, not a question. Of course Allison would have visited Stiles; she visited Lydia. She visited Lydia daily, even though Lydia was not half as lucid as Stiles. But she could see it in her eyes the next moment. "You haven't."

            Guilt flushed over Allison's face and she looked away again. "I tried, when he first got brought in, after he healed, but he just... he lost it. Shouting. Trying to warn me. It was so stressful for him, I just... I couldn't go back."

            "Do you want to go see him now?" she asked quietly.

            "Yes," Allison told her, as if there could be no other answer. Then she sighed and shook her head a little. "But, I shouldn't. If I go now, it could mess things up for you and your partner. I'll see him when he's out."

            Jane wasn't sure if it would be appropriate, but she reached out a hand and laid it gently on Allison's shoulder. "We will make sure he is released, regardless of anything else we do, Allison."

            Though she slipped from Jane's grasp, Allison nodded and wiped discreetly at one eye with the heel of her hand. "Yeah," she said, tight throat making the words thick. "Yeah, thank you."

            With a nod, Jane stepped back again, giving Allison her space. "We'll work on all of it. Put it all together bit by bit for your people and mine, and get this sorted."

            Allison straightened her shoulders and visibly returned to the woman Jane had first met. "Well, Lydia's not going to be any good for that, and they're still dredging up papers for you. But maybe... do you want to see the site for yourself?" Allison asked, soft but sly, because they both knew what she was suggesting was against the rules the town council had laid down for Jane and Marin. The light had returned to her eyes. "I can take you there, if you think it would help."

            "It's two in the morning," Jane reminded her.

            "I'm sorry," Allison responded in a tone that suggested she wasn't very sorry at all. "Am I waking you up?"

            Jane's bark of laughter startled them both in the empty, echoing hall. "No, I suppose you're not," she conceded in good humor. "And I would very much appreciate a visit to the... site. Is it safe to go, in the dark?"

            "It's never safe to go," Allison told her. "You know that. We may as well leave when no one can see us."

            That set Jane back a little. "Are you not allowed out?"

            "Technically?" Allison smiled, lifting her chin a little in defiance. "I'd like to see them try to keep me in. So?"

            "I would appreciate the visit," Jane accepted, stepping back a little and gesturing for Allison to precede her. "Lead the way."

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [Chasing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingShadows/pseuds/ChasingShadows) and [Ivy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/earthtostiles/gifts) for the beta reads and putting up with 10001 and questions.

* * *

 

            The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time they reached the ruins, turning the sky a haze of pink and gold. Allison hesitated at the edge of the clearing, looking out over the remains of the old house. Most of what they could see was scorched, cracked, broken, the main portion of the house collapsed to a skeleton of its former self. Far to the right, part of the house was preserved by the huge, rotting oak that had fallen into it at some point in the distant past. Foliage had finally begun to reclaim the base of the house, climbing over the trunk of the tree to get at the rich nutrients it provided, but even that amount of life seemed out of place at such a graveyard.

            Jane moved past her, not having to ask if this was the place. Allison couldn't bring herself to follow. She had visited here a few times over the past couple of years, but she hadn't worked up the courage to investigate. She hadn't been able to touch any of it. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself and watched as Jane walked along the edge of the house, trailing her fingers softly over the rain-rotted wood.

            Longing pulled at her, sharp and painful. She missed Scott.

 

* * *

 

            With nothing left to discuss about Jackson, the group sat quietly in Allison's hospital room, grasping for anything to say next. Nothing seemed appropriate after such a heavy conversation and so Scott perched beside Allison on the bed and Lydia sat on the counter across from them with her lips pursed. She watched Stiles wheel himself around the room on the little examination stool as he tried to feel less guilty for not having said something about Jackson's plan earlier.

            "I put in for our team to cover exploration of the new settlement area," Lydia supplied at last. Stiles crashed into the cupboards near her, forgetting to stick his feet out to catch himself. "For next month."

            "Did Victoria have anything to say about that?" Stiles asked, glancing to Scott, who seemed just as surprised. They'd been planning on applying after they survived the full moon in a couple days.

            Lydia smiled. "She said she was surprised Scott would want to take that sort of initiative so soon after the baby. She was really snooty about it. I reminded her that you're the squad lead now, Stiles."

            "And?" he prompted. He and Victoria Argent had gotten along when he first arrived to camp, but his steadfast friendship with Scott had put them at odds. She seemed to think no one was good enough to be dating her daughter. Scott and Allison's marriage a year ago hadn't helped her views much.

            Shrugging, Lydia leaned back on her hands and kicked her feet a little. "She was impressed. She seemed-"

            The sound of a gunshot in the street cut her short and drew their attention to the windows. Stiles was on his feet in an instant, Scott a step in front of him as they moved to see. Raucous cheering and shouting filtered through the glass and the boys exchanged worried looks. The camp knew better than that. It was well after dark and there was no telling what sort of supernaturals would be drawn in by loud noises and activity.

            Scott made the decision first. "We have to go see."

            "It looks like they're dragging someone," Stiles said, nose to the window. "You think someone got bit again?"

            "They didn't drag Raul in," Lydia told them.

           "They wouldn't make this much noise for a human," Scott mumbled, peering over Stiles' shoulder to get a better look. His eyesight was probably better, so Stiles dropped out of his way.

            "You think they caught a super?" Lydia asked, leaning over without getting off the counter. Her knuckles were white where they grasped the edges. She dealt with paperwork, not supernatural creatures.

            The group exchanged glances. There was only one supernatural being that had been hanging around the camp long enough to establish a presence, long enough to be caught. Stiles gave a little shrug and turned to Scott. "We'll go check it out. You should stay with Allison."

            "Excuse me," Allison shot back at him, offended. "I can take care of myself. Go."

            Scott raised his eyebrows at Stiles and Lydia hopped down from the counter. "We're not getting any younger," she quipped, moving past them.

            At the hospital exit Scott paused, head cocked to one side. The gesture had bewildered the group at first, making Scott seem perpetually confused. Now they knew he was listening to something they couldn't hear and so they slowed, waiting. Lydia, not having spent as much time around Scott as Stiles had, looked toward the crowd. Stiles, however, turned his attention solely to his best friend.

            "Rawson's squad," Scott reported. "You were right; they caught a Super." He met Stiles' gaze. "They're saying it's an alpha."

            Gooseflesh rose on Stiles' arms, but he ignored it. "It's not Derek," he said firmly. Derek had no reason to be this close to camp and he certainly wouldn't have let himself get caught. "It can't- It's probably Peter. They still think Peter is an alpha."

            "Probably," Scott agreed, though he didn't look entirely convinced. His eyes took on the distant quality that said he was listening elsewhere again. "Jing and Devon got hurt, but they're alive. They're saying he..." His brow crinkled and he looked to Stiles. "They're saying the alpha _surrendered_?"

            "That doesn't make any sense!" Stiles exclaimed. "Peter wouldn't- what? What is it?" he demanded, because Scott's face had drained of color and he was staring in horror at Stiles.

            "He told them," Scott breathed, barely audible over the noise of the gathering crowd. Stiles' stomach swooped sickeningly. "He told them about the bite."

 

* * *

 

_Peter's been taken by BHC hunters. We were so close we could hear the skirmish, enough that we knew Peter wasn't fighting them. He wanted to be caught. When we got there, his scent was swarmed with human stench. Boyd followed it to the border fence, but there were too many people for him to get close. None of us can fathom why he let himself be caught, but it can't be good. They'll kill him, if they haven't already._

_I don't know what to do now._

_We should leave. I know that. Boyd's finished scavenging for parts for his damn cart, and he's got the meat already hung in it, ready to go. Erica has reminded me twice today that_ _Nevada_ _is nice this time of year. Even Laura says it is looking grim if we stay much longer. We should dump the turnwolf by the camp, grab our stuff, and leave._

_We should. I know._

_Peter's as good as dead. So is_ _Jackson_ _if we abandon him._

_It's best if we leave. We'll be safer._

_There's a few hours until dawn. I'll sort it out then._

 

* * *

 

            Candle lanterns lit the normally dark hospital halls as Stiles padded through them. After making sure that Lydia would take Scott someplace safe, someplace where the camp wouldn't find him for at least a few hours, Stiles had stationed himself so he could observe the hospital. He was glad they'd gotten out when they did; the only secure places were in the locked wards in the basement of the hospital. The group had headed straight for the building, and would have run over the top of the group. They might have found Scott.

            It was a while, longer than he would have liked, before the crowd died down and wandered away from the building. Stiles passed the time naming those who exited until he was sure there were only a few left within before he moved. He had to get down to see Peter alone and he knew there was only a small window before that would be nearly impossible.

            He rounded the last corner cautiously, knowing that there would be at least one guard standing duty. He also knew that whoever it was would be impromptu, someone who had volunteered, and that once Gerard found out there was a captive Super in the camp, he would ensure there were scheduled guards. He'd come down himself before long and Stiles had to be gone by then. He couldn't draw that sort of attention to Scott or the rest of the group.

            "Stiles?" called a voice from the end of the hall. Stiles relaxed, recognizing the speaker.

            "Loren," Stiles greeted, a little too loudly. He waved to the scout as he walked toward that end of the hall. "Should have known you'd volunteer to watch over the thing. You sure you're safe to be around it alone?"

            Scowling, Loren banged on the door once with the butt of his rifle. "I'm not gonna shoot it," he spat at Stiles. "No matter who it killed, Gerard would have my skin if I did."

            Stiles swallowed the guilt that jumped into his throat. Loren was on the hunting side of Raul's scouting team. They'd been good friends, if Stiles recalled, but that didn't change what he had to do now. "Yeah," he agreed. "Gerard's busy having Rawson's skin for bringing it into camp in the first place. You can bet he's going to be in a foul mood by the time he gets down here."

            Loren eyed Stiles skeptically. "He send you down to check up on it?"

            "Guard duty," Stiles corrected, patting his sidearm. "Full silver clip. He'll be down shortly. You might want to be scarce by then."

                        It was a lie. Of course it was a lie, and a part of him knew that he was burning bridges and that he was going to have a difficult time explaining his actions when this was over. But it would be over. Scott would be safe. Lydia would be safe. He would make sure of it, no matter what he had to do, including lying to other camp denizens like Loren.

            Fortunately for Stiles, he was trustworthy enough to be believed when he needed it. Standing up from where he'd been sitting on the floor, Loren shook his head. "How'd you land that lucky shift?"

            Stiles shrugged, patting Loren's shoulder as he passed. "Being friends with Scott, who won't leave Allison. Have a good night, man."

            "You too," Loren called over his shoulder. Stiles watched as he disappeared around the corner, listened tensely to the sound of his footsteps until he couldn't hear them anymore. Then he waited another few heartbeats before he peeked over the edge of the window built into the room's door.

            Inside, Peter sat against the wall on the far side of the bed, his head tipped back and one knee drawn up close. His eyes were closed but the slight tip of his head told Stiles that he'd been listening to the conversation. Stiles reached down and laid his hand on the doorknob. He wondered, as he turned it, if Peter had been able to hear the beat of his heart increase when he'd said he had a full clip of silver bullets. He wondered if Peter would attack him if he went inside to talk.

            The door swung open without a sound.

            "Stiles," Peter greeted, without opening his eyes. A grin that sent shivers down Stiles' spine crept onto his lips. "How nice of you to join me." When his eyes opened, they were the golden color most betas wore. "You certainly haven't come to guard me."

            "Scott says you told them," Stiles informed him, ignoring the observation. "That you bit him. Is that true?"

            Peter hummed low in his throat and closed his eyes, tipping his head back once more. "I didn't give your precious friend away," he murmured. "I told them I'd bitten someone, before the scout."

            "Raul," Stiles snapped, surprised at how his throat closed. He hadn't been that close to Raul, but it needled him that Peter had tricked the camp into killing one of their own unnecessarily. "His name was Raul, and they killed him."

            "It wasn't my bullet, human," Peter told him, without skipping a beat. "That team attacked me first."

            "You smeared my friends over half a mile of forest," Stiles retorted, far more calmly than he felt.

            "Only after they were dead," Peter told him, like it was perfectly reasonable. "But you're not here to argue semantics, I assume."

            "You killed six people this month, Peter. I was friends with three of them." Stiles shook his head, rolling his eyes as he looked away from the werewolf. "But no, I'm not here to argue _semantics_. I came to find out what you told them, because I need to make a plan. If you didn't tell them who you bit, they're going to search everyone, and that means they're going to find Scott. It's all going to have been for nothing."

            Peter rolled his eyes. "You're being a little dramatic, aren't you?" he suggested. "I told your little Neanderthal friends that I would only tell Gerard who I bit. They won't test everyone, your friend will be perfectly safe."

            "Perfectly safe?" Stiles echoed, nearly choking on the words. " _Perfectly safe_ , Peter? You think you're just going to tell Gerard who it was, and magically Scott's going to be safe? He's going to test everyone anyway because if one person got through his security, there may be others."

            Snorting, Peter stretched out a little, scooting toward the edge of the bed. Stiles held his ground in the doorway. "I don't intend to let Gerard leave my presence alive. He won't come after your friend."

            "Gerard will kill you," Stiles told him, less sharply than he had hoped. He was feeling a little dizzy at how easily they were throwing around the taking of lives right now. "If he even bothers to come here himself, which he probably won't."

            "He'll come," Peter told him, tone darkening. "He killed my family, a long time ago, and he may kill me now, but I will ensure he doesn't survive it. As long as that happens-"

            "What the hell, Peter! Don't you even _care_?" Stiles interrupted, incredulous. "You're locked up in the belly of a camp full of hostiles waiting for a slim chance to avenge a family that won't even be able to tell, when you've already got a perfectly good family out in the woods desperately searching for you!" Stiles lowered his voice, reminding himself that they didn't have a lot of time before someone was bound to come down on actual orders from Gerard. "All they want is for you to come home safely. Shouldn't that matter?"

            When he fell to silence, he found Peter was just staring at him, brows up and mouth opened slightly without anything to say. Peter's eyes dropped a little and Stiles could see his attention turning inward as he touched the raw wounds Stiles had undoubtedly opened. For a moment Stiles let him, because he needed Peter to be with him on this, because he was already formulating a plan but it would never work without Peter's cooperation.

            "If it was me, I could never leave my dad like that," Stiles told him softly. "They need you, man. This revenge shit? It doesn't lead anywhere good. It's not going to bring your family back... but it will make you one more person that Derek and Laura have to lose. They don't deserve that."

            For an instant, Peter's gaze met his, but then it slid sideways and Stiles recognized the look. He leaned back, straining to hear any sign of the approaching life that had Peter's attention. Faintly, from a long ways away, he could hear the tapping of boots on linoleum.

            "Why are you here, Stiles?" Peter asked, focused on him once more. Stiles didn't like that look.

            "I can get you out," Stiles told him. The offer left a bad taste on his tongue. He didn't want to let Peter out; he could still smell the copper tang of blood from the people Peter had killed. But he wasn't about to let Scott get caught and killed, either, and he hadn't been lying when he said Derek and Laura didn't deserve to lose more family. "But I need to know that you'll leave, if I do. I need to know you'll go with Derek, and that you'll all just go."

            The footsteps were getting louder now. Stiles could feel his heartbeat singing beneath his skin, making him a little dizzy. Much longer and he would be caught. He backed up a pace, back through the doorway, and laid his hand on the edge of the door. Peter was just staring at him, bewildered, and Stiles could practically see him trying to puzzle out why Stiles would ever make such an offer.

            "What's in it for you?" Peter asked him, so softly Stiles almost didn't hear.

            "Saving my family," Stiles told him. It was the truth, the plain truth. Scott may not have been blood, but he may as well have been family. There was nothing Stiles wouldn't do for him, right up to _death do us part_. "Like you should be. This is your second chance, Peter. Are you going to waste it on Gerard?"

            Then the footsteps were too close, and Stiles had to let the door click shut the moment before the person rounded the corner. He pressed his nose to the glass and glared in at Peter, not sure if he was more angry that they'd been interrupted or that he didn't have an answer.

            "Stiles?"

            Relaxing a little, he turned to face the semi-familiar voice. "Charles!" he greeted with as little strain on the happiness in his voice as possible. "They send you down to watch it?"

            "Yeah," Charles said slowly. "They said Loren would be down here."

            Stiles suppressed the urge to curse, and waved a hand. "He was, but I said I could handle it. I wanted a good look at the thing that killed Raul and the others."

            At that, Charles nodded, visibly relaxing as well. "Nasty one, isn't it?"

            "Surprised it's staying put, honestly," Stiles said, throwing a look over his shoulder in through the glass, knowing Peter could hear every word. "I figured it'd make a run for it, try to make an escape, eh?" he continued, banging a hand on the door as if he were taunting the werewolf.

            "I will," filtered Peter's voice from inside. Clearly he was speaking up, to be heard through the thick door.

            Stiles smiled at Charles as if he'd proved a point, but he could feel the knot in his gut relaxing. Clapping Charles on the shoulder, he wished him luck and tipped an imaginary hat at him as he walked backward toward the exit. Peter would behave until Stiles returned, and he was sure now that the wolf would come with him. All that was left was to convince everyone else to do too many crazy things on the off chance that they wouldn't all get themselves killed.

           

* * *

 

            "Why didn't you just let him out then?" Morrell inquired. She hated to interrupt him while he was on a roll, but it was important. "Before the guard, before Charles showed up? You could have just walked out with him, or moved him and told Charles he got out."

            "And do what with him?" Stiles asked, tipping his head and furrowing his brow.

            "He could have hidden someplace in the camp, couldn't he?" she inquired. "Even another room in the hospital, until it was safe. It seems like that would have been easier for you. Safer."

            "Not really," Stiles countered, shaking his head. "Even if a camp-wide search wasn't called, it wouldn't have taken much for them to figure out I was the last one to see him. I didn't have a scratch on me. The way it went, I was vetted when Charlie came by. They'd seen me guard him and leave. It was _reliable_."

            "It was a deception," Morrell said. Stiles shrugged, looking away from her.

            "It was a precaution," he admitted. "It's not like I had a solid plan or anything. I had a lot of maybes and not a lot of hope and they were going to test everyone in camp if no one came forward, whether Peter was captive or not, if we didn't turn someone over to them." Stiles' shoulders rolled in a shrug. "Besides, he couldn't have made it out cleanly then."

            "Cleanly?" She glanced down at the papers on the table between them. She knew they both had read them. She knew she wasn't telling him anything new. "The report says no one died. That sounds pretty clean."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed. "Because we waited. If I'd let him out, he might have made it out of the hospital, or maybe to a different part of it. But the camp was on high alert. If he'd bolted, they'd have caught him before he made the gates, and he'd have had to fight. It would have been a bloodbath." His gaze dropped to his cuffed hands, picking at his thumbnail. "We'd lost enough people to the whole mess. I did my best to make sure no one else got hurt."

            "They did get hurt, though," she reminded him softly. "You did, too."

            Stiles didn't respond. Even as she watched, his eyes lost focus and she could practically see him reliving the night. She waited, as patiently as possible, watching him fight through the memory, watching until she could see he was coming back to her. There had been one time, just once in their interactions, that she had attempted to move him out of a trance to continue. She still sported the bruise around her wrist from where he had latched on, unseeing.

            She never mentioned it to him afterward.

            "Stiles?" she asked softly when his head jerked up a little. His focus turned to her, acute and steady. "How did you get Peter out? There were guards, and the report says you were alone."

            "I wasn't." Stiles sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I told Lydia I would take her out to Jackson, remember? And Lydia was... Lydia was a force of nature. If you tell her you're going to do something, you'd better damn well do it."

            Judging by the exasperated noise Stiles made, Morrell assumed her confusion was evident. She tried to wave it aside with one hand before he could go on. "So she helped you get Peter out."

            "No," Stiles said, shaking his head. Morrell's confusion deepened, and Stiles leaned forward to rest his forearms on the table top. "I mean, she wasn't _there_ , you know? We left camp and she never really came back. Everything went sideways."

 

* * *

 

            "I cannot believe we are doing this right now," Stiles muttered. The forest was still around them, unnaturally silent in the way that said there were definitely predators. Stiles just hoped they were hiding because of him and Lydia rather than something nastier. They hadn't been able to grab equipment before leaving, not without getting caught.

            "It was your idea," Lydia reminded him from a few paces behind him. He could practically hear the miserable notes in her tone. She was a bookie, not a hunter, not a scout. It was rare for her to be in the wilderness at all, especially this far out, and Stiles couldn't help but wonder if she was regretting her request.

            "Actually, _Lydia_ ," he argued, stressing her name like a bad word. "It was your husband's idea. He wanted to come out and get bit."

            "You kept Scott alive,' she countered, climbing over a fallen tree. She accepted his steadying hand from the other side.

            Stiles rolled his eyes. "Should I have let him die? Maybe brought him back to be killed?" he asked. He knew the answer, and he knew he was being cranky. It was cold and he wanted to just wake up and have all of this have been a horrible nightmare.

            "No," Lydia huffed. "It's just- Hey. Is that the house?"

            Up ahead of them the house stood nestled in the barren clearing. Stiles hadn't really been looking at it the first time he'd visited. It was intimidating in the dark, the collapsed portion off to the right, the porch overhang dark and foreboding. It almost looked like the entrance to a cave. There were no lights on inside, though a small light flickered on the front porch, illuminating the figure sitting on the steps, watching them.

            Though it was dark, Stiles recognized her. "Laura!" he called out, halting Lydia with an outstretched hand. "We come in peace!"

            "I know," Laura called, soft and easy. She clambered to her feet. "Derek's been expecting you."

            "Oh, expecting us," Lydia repeated, pitched only for Stiles' benefit despite that Laura probably heard anyway. "He was expecting us, Stiles." It sounded a lot like she blamed him for this.

           He just gave her an exhausted glare and moved his hand around to her back, splaying it between her shoulder blades. "Just go," he muttered, pushing her forward gently. "Before they change their minds."

            Without further comment, they trudged after Laura into the house. She used the candle she carried to light two more candles and passed them off to Stiles and Lydia. They were lumpy and obviously hand made, probably by the wolves themselves. He tried not to think about them harvesting the wax needed, or about them sitting around forming them into little candles together. It was too... domestic.

            Barely halfway through the house, they heard a low groan and Lydia was on the move past Laura without even asking permission. Thankfully Laura didn't stop her, though she did turn a look to Stiles that was caught somewhere between impressed and annoyed. Stiles merely gave her a shrug, because there was literally no way he was going to get between Lydia and Jackson; he'd rather face the werewolves.

            "You _idiot_ ," filtered back to them from where Lydia disappeared, and Laura nodded Stiles forward with rolled eyes. Before he could get around her, however, he felt a gentle tug on the edge of his coat. When he turned, Derek was standing there, looking past him to the room where Lydia was laying into Jackson about how stupid she thought he'd been. He didn't look particularly eager to get between them either.

            "Can we talk?" Derek asked, sounding hesitant.

            "We caught Peter and they're holding him alive," Stiles blurted before he could think about it. Both Derek and Laura seemed startled, exchanging a wide-eyed glance. "I- I can get him out."

            A sigh puffed out of Derek as he ran a hand through his hair and then pressed the heel of his hand to his temple as if warning off a headache. "What?" he finally bit out, like maybe Stiles had just spoken too quickly and Derek hadn't understood.

            "Well, _we_ didn't catch him," Stiles clarified. "Not my group. The camp though, a hunter team brought him in tonight. Alive. And I think I can get him out."

            "Derek..." Laura said softly, but Derek was staring hard at Stiles, who knew his heartbeat must be hammering; he was feeling a little light headed. He hoped Derek wouldn't take it to mean he was lying.

            "How long do they- are they planning on holding him?" Derek asked, ignoring whatever Laura had been trying to tell him.

            Stiles swallowed, though he was shaking a little. Everything depended on this conversation. "Maybe a day. Gerard won't let him live long, but Peter bought some time. He told the team that caught him that he'd bitten someone in camp, and the full moon's coming. They'll test everyone. They'll find Scott."

            "I assume you're here as more than just a news reporter," Derek guessed. "Get to the point."

            "Peter wants out," Stiles told him. He didn't miss the flicker of desire that widened Derek's pupils. Peter may not have been the most stable creature, but he was family, and Stiles knew the feeling. "I can get him out, but I may need help. And I... I may have a request."

            "A request?" Derek asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Or a demand..."

            "A request," Stiles affirmed, motioning with one hand. "You don't have to say yes."

            "And if I say no?" Derek inquired, too politely as he crossed his arms. Stiles didn't like the confrontational tone; it made him want to be confrontational back, and he couldn't afford that right now. "Are you going to let them have my uncle?"

            That drew Stiles up short. Of course he had meant to use this as a bargaining chip, and he'd assumed that Derek would agree on principal. He assumed Derek would be willing to grant a request, if it meant freeing Peter and escaping. But now that Derek had said it aloud, Stiles found he didn't want to force Derek into a corner over this. He didn't want to force Derek to agree with him.

            As true as that was, however, he desperately needed Derek to agree. If he didn't, Stiles and his group - all of his friends - were as good as dead. There was a chance they would just be exiled, those of them that were still human, but Scott and Jackson wouldn't pass that test. Scott and Jackson would take silver bullets to the chest or head, and Stiles would spend the rest of his life blaming himself.

            However, if he forced Derek, there was a good chance the wolf would resent it. There was a good chance that whatever bargain they struck would be null as soon as Peter was back with him. He'd already backpedaled on an agreement with Stiles once, when he'd felt no obligation to Stiles. If he outright resented Stiles, there was no telling what he would do.

            "No," he said at last, heaving a sigh. It was probably stupid, agreeing to let Peter out without a bargain. Stupid, but right. Scott would have been proud of him; maybe Scott's heroism was rubbing off. "I'll help you anyway."

            At that, Derek straightened up, unfolding his arms a little. It was clear he hadn't expected that and wasn't sure what to say in response. "Okay."

            Stiles hadn't realized how tense he'd been until he relaxed at being granted audience for his idea. "Take them with you."

            Derek's nose scrunched. "Scott and Jackson?"

            "No," Stiles said quickly, mirroring Derek's look of confusion. He brushed away the idea with a wave of his hand. "If this all works like I think it will, Scott will be fine. But Jackson won't be. Look, they have to catch someone, right? It's going to be Scott or Jackson, and if Jackson's plan works, he's going to get caught anyway. Everyone knows about Lydia's... condition."

            "So you want me to take a newly turned werewolf and his human mate with us when we try to make an escape with a camp of angry hunters on our tails?" Derek clarified.

            "Okay," Stiles conceded, squinting a little as he hunched his shoulders. "It sounds way less sane when you say it like that."

            "That's because it's insane," Derek told him, leaning forward just a little to drive home the point.

            "It's not!" Stiles protested, reaching for Derek's arm when he began to turn to leave. Derek shot him a glare and Stiles snapped his hand back like he'd been burned, wondering when he'd gotten comfortable enough to think that had been a good idea. These were still supers, still deadly creatures. "I mean, it's a little crazy, but it's totally possible, right?"

            Sighing, Derek looked away from Stiles. "They won't agree to it, even if I do," Derek told him. "They won't want to give up camp life."

            "Do you want to maybe ask before you decide that for them?" Stiles inquired, regretting the sarcasm when he saw Derek's jaw clench.

            When Derek didn't answer, Stiles shimmied around him and headed for the door to the bedroom where Jackson was being kept. It was Isaac's room, the same place Scott had been kept, but Isaac was nowhere in sight this time. Jackson was sitting on the edge of the bed, Lydia beside him, pressed shoulder to shoulder with him. They both looked up when Stiles entered. It was weird to see Jackson attempt a smile that wasn't predatory or smug; Stiles hoped he never had to see Jackson trying on gratitude again, it was really awkward.

            "We're never going to get past the gate when we go back," Lydia said, instead of greeting him.

            "I know," Stiles agreed. Jackson wouldn't meet his eyes. "But I have an idea, if you want to hear it."

            "You want us to run away with the wolves," Jackson mumbled. Stiles shot him a confused look; Scott's hearing hadn't gotten that good that fast. When Jackson caught his expression, he rolled his eyes. "You weren't exactly quiet."

            Stiles tried not to look too guilty as he turned his attention to Lydia. "Everyone knows you can't conceive, Lydia. If this works, and you get pregnant... they'll start asking why. They'll figure it out. And Jackson won't be safe, and you won't be safe, and your kid won't be safe."

            "We don't even know if it will work," Lydia pointed out softly.

            "Even if it doesn't... Gerard is going to be testing everyone. You know that." He hated having to press the issue with her, but they were running out of time. Even if they left right now, they'd barely make camp by dawn. "Maybe he'll catch Scott first. Maybe not. Maybe he won't stop once he finds one person that didn't come forward. Or _we_ can call the shots."

            She swallowed, squeezing Jackson's hand. He glanced sideways at her and smiled, though it was the sort of heartsick, terrified smile of someone contemplating their own demise. "We don't really have a choice, do we?"

            "Not really," she agreed, leaning over to press her forehead against his. She closed her eyes. "Will they even take us?"

            Stiles turned to look at Derek, who had joined him in the doorway. Derek was watching the couple with brows drawn in and when he realized he was the one being asked, he gave a half-hearted shrug of surrender. "If you're really willing to give up your old life and follow us, we'll take you."

            "If nothing else, they can get you to a town where no one knows you," Stiles suggested. "There's got to be other settlements out there, right?"

            "There are," Derek agreed. "Some take in newcomers permanently. Some have rules about how long travelers can stay. We can take you to one that's safe."

            "See?" Stiles told them, though even he could hear how strained his voice was. He probably wasn't fooling either of them. "Derek and his pack will take care of you, Scott will be safe. Everyone lives-"

            "I swear to god if you say happily ever after, I will tell them _you_ are the werewolf," Jackson snipped, though it was without real venom. Lydia whacked him on the shoulder.

            "Don't be like that," she reprimanded. "Stiles is right. This is the safest way for everyone." Then she looked to Stiles, eyes bright in a way that suggested she might have been about to cry. "I assume you mean to have Jackson admit he's the one Peter bit?"

            "What?" Jackson said at the same time as Stiles said: "Yeah."

            "Why?" Jackson asked, glaring at Stiles now.

            "Because, dude," Stiles reasoned. "Because if you're the one that Peter bit, they don't have to test everyone. If they know who it is, if you come forward, then Scott doesn't get tested, and he gets to stay here with Allison."

            Though Jackson groaned, he agreed. "Whatever, I guess it doesn't matter. If you get me killed, Stilinski, I'm coming back for you."

            "You're not going to get killed," Stiles told him, rolling his eyes. "Come on. We've got to make it back before they start breakfast. You know they'll put wolfsbane in the morning drinks if they still don't know."

            Lydia and Jackson clambered to their feet as Stiles backed out of the doorway around Derek. He could feel the wolf watching him, felt like he was being studied, but he ignored it. They had a lot to get done and not a lot of time in which to do it. He began to move for the exit, Derek trailing behind him and Lydia and Jackson behind Derek. Laura met them at the door, drawing it open, and Stiles let Lydia and Jackson pass him in favor of hanging back to say goodbye.

            "Thank you," he said to Derek, hoping he could convey all the gratitude he felt in just those words. "If it counts for anything, I'm sorry everything got so messed up for you." He hesitated, mouth going dry. "I'm probably not going to get a chance to say goodbye again."

            "Probably not," Derek agreed.

            "So, you know..." Stiles resisted the urge to rub his palms on his pants to dry them. "A lot of crappy stuff's happened because of your pack."

            "Goodbye, Stiles," Derek told him firmly, clearly holding back from rolling his eyes.

            "That's not what I meant," Stiles told him quickly, scrubbing a hand through his hair and hoping he didn't look as miserable as he felt just then. "I don't regret it," he said in a rush, before he lost the nerve. "I don't regret meeting you. Any of you."

            That seemed to give Derek pause. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm glad we didn't kill each other, too."

            "Okay." Stiles nodded, as if the issue had been settled, and turned to go.

            "Stiles?" He reached out, laying a hand on Stiles' shoulder.

            He turned back, met Derek's eyes. "Yeah?"

            "If you let him out, you're going to get in trouble." Stiles wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a question or not, so he just waited. "They might hurt you."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed. "But only if I get caught."

            "They could kill you, Stiles. They've killed people for less." If Stiles didn't know better, he would have said Derek was _concerned_ for him.

            He smiled. "So, I won't get caught," he concluded, shrugging off Derek's hand. He didn't know what to do with the strange, intense look Derek gave him at that, the air too charged between them for him to crack a joke about it. "Just... be at the East entrance of the camp at dawn, okay? And be ready to run."

            There wasn't anything else to say. He could feel Derek's eyes on him as he stepped off the porch and crossed the clearing to catch up to Lydia and Jackson. He spent the entire walk back convincing himself he didn't regret just walking away.

  

* * *

 

 

            "Allison?" Jane called, turning back from halfway around the house. She was nearly to the portion that was taller than her, now. "You said they drugged them. Did they use darts?"

            "Bullets," Allison replied, raising her voice over the gaping stillness of the forest. "Back then we didn't have the resources for darts."

            "Powdered wolfsbane tips?" Jane patted at the edge of the house with the flat of her palm, no longer looking at Allison. Her palm came away filthy with soot.

            "Yes," Allison confirmed. "My father's design. It will kill a wolf even if it doesn't hit the head or heart."

            Though she was too far away to hear, Allison knew the small 'hm' noise Jane made. She'd made it every time Allison said something that got filed away into the vault of the woman's mind rather than discussed. It was irritating, to say the least, but Allison let it go. Jane disappeared around the corner of the house and when Allison heard her shifting things around, she finally found the courage to get a little closer. The house was completely unstable and shifting anything could cause further collapse.

            "What are you doing?" Allison asked when she reached the corner. She peered around it, keeping as much distance between herself and the house as was possible while still finding her charge.

            Glancing up, Jane smiled. "Just looking."

            "That doesn't look like just looking," Allison told her straight-faced. "In fact it looks an awful lot like you're trying to find a way into the basement."  

            "Hm," Jane murmured, that same annoying noise accompanied by a pleasant smile that said she didn't disagree. "I suppose it does."

            Allison rolled her eyes. "It's not safe. The whole structure was compromised by the fire."

            For a moment, Jane just crouched where she was, staring into the abyss of the basement through the small opening she had found between some of the branches of the fallen tree. If they'd had a flashlight, Allison knew that they might be able to see a little deeper, see the wreckage of the house collapsed a couple yards beyond the hole. She knew what else they would see, and she had no desire to see it.

            Then Jane was getting to her feet, squinting a little in thought, and she took a step away from the house. "Where are they buried?"

            By the sympathetic look Jane gave her, Allison knew she hadn't been fast enough to hide her pained expression. "They weren't," she mumbled, heart twisting up in her chest. "Kate just burned the house down around them and left them to rot."

            A small amount of satisfaction curled in Allison's chest at the sick look on Jane's face. Kate didn't deserve anything less.

            "Why?" Jane breathed, though it slipped out of her in a way that said she hadn't meant to say it aloud.

            There wasn't really an answer, so Allison just shrugged. "Because they were monsters, to her. They were animals- worse than animals I guess, because they preyed on humans. Or she thought they did, anyway." Allison's voice had gone hoarse over the lump in her throat. It had been so long since she'd talked about any of this. It still felt raw. She still felt damaged. "The pack never got a burial because the camp only buries fallen humans."

            For once, Jane didn't make a sound. She just observed Allison for a moment, and then she was reaching out, laying a warm palm on her cold shoulder. Despite that Allison expected to hear some form of apology, Jane didn't give one. It was comforting; there was only one person Allison wanted an apology from, and that was no longer possible.

            Wiping at her eyes, stinging with tears now, Allison forced a smile. "We should get back," she said, instead of acknowledging the moment. "They'll notice if we're gone much longer."

            Jane nodded and motioned for Allison to lead the way. Wrapping her coat a little tighter around herself, Allison began to move for the edge of the clearing, toward home. Leaves crackled and crunched beneath her feet and after a moment she realized it was _only_ her feet, and she turned back.

            Behind her, Jane stood at the edge of the house, staring up at it with a thoughtful look on her face. Allison wondered what Jane saw, without the layers upon layers of history Allison couldn't forget. She wondered what the burned out shell could tell someone whose world hadn't come close to ending with the blaze. She wondered what the house looked like to someone who couldn't see the ghosts.

            Then Jane turned, catching her eye, and the moment evaporated as she began to head Allison's way. When she reached Allison's side, she smiled, and they headed down the path home together.


	8. Chapter 8

            By the time he returned to camp, his stomach felt like it had been twisted in knots and his head was pounding. He wanted a long drink of water and about a week of sitting in a dark room, just collecting his thoughts and trying to remember the days when they all exercised good judgment about these sorts of things. The problem was that they’d never encountered ‘these sorts of things’ before. It didn’t seem to matter if Stiles had a few more minutes or a few more years; there might not be a better way to figure any of this out.

            The guards at the east entrance saw him long before he could make out who they were. He waved, hollering out the safe word as he approached. No one lowered their weapons, and he knew why; it was rare for a hunter to return alone, and he and Lydia had left via the south entrance. There wouldn’t have been communication until a shift change, and that wasn’t due for another hour or two. The pack would have to be on the road by then or there would be no getting away with this plan.

            “Stiles!” called one of the guards when he was close enough. “What are you doing out alone? This isn’t even your territory.”

            Not wanting to cause a commotion yet, he halted a few yards beyond the gate and raised his hands, palms up. “I went out to look for Jackson. We got separated on patrol earlier and I heard he didn’t make it back.”

            “Alone?” the guy demanded, and Stiles recognized the voice through the helmet. “You know better than to go out alone, Stiles.”

            “I didn’t go far,” he promised, then tipped his head, gaze narrowing. “What’s with the twenty questions, Jim? Did something happen?”

            Jim pushed his mask off, folding it under one arm and glaring at Stiles. They’d never really gotten along. “You didn’t hear?”

            “Hear what?” Stiles asked, doing his best to sound exasperated.

            Though he frowned, Jim set the helmet on one of the hooks behind the wall and beckoned Stiles into the camp. “One of the teams brought in a werewolf last night. That alpha _your_ team couldn’t bag.”

            “Brought it back? What, was it alive?” Stiles asked. He held up his arms, doing a slow turn around to show that there was no blood on him. Jim gave him a once over, patting him down, until he was satisfied that Stiles was, indeed, Stiles, before answering.

            “Yeah, alive,” Jim told him, sounding cranky. He shoved Stiles inside the camp by one shoulder.

            “Why alive?” Stiles protested. “Why didn’t they kill it?”

            “I don’t know, kid,” Jim groused. “They said it bit someone, but they don’t know who.”

            Stiles plastered on his best horrified face. “Well they’re going to find out, aren’t they?” he demanded, planting his feet as Jim tried to shoo him away from the checkpoint.

            “Yes, they’re going to- Just go check in with your bookies,” Jim advised. “Let Gerard deal with it.”

            “Okay, okay,” Stiles said, batting Jim’s hands away from him and hunching his shoulders. Walking a pace away, he paused, just long enough to draw an exasperated sigh from the guard. “Hey...” he began slowly. “You know, Jackson was with us when we came up against that alpha. We got separated when it chased him off... you don’t think...?” He trailed off, tipping his head.

            He watched the guards look around at one another, didn’t have to see their faces to know that their thoughts were all racing down the same track together. If Jackson had been separated, if Jackson was missing again, if Jackson had been acting weirdly lately - and he had, though Stiles knew it was for unrelated reasons - then it was certainly possible that he had been the one to take the bite.

            “It’s a full moon like, tomorrow or something, isn’t it?” Stiles added for good measure, just in case any of them had not gotten the hint. “Kind of convenient that he’s just disappeared, don’t you think?”

            Jim paled visibly and pointed at Stiles. “Take that to Gerard, _now_. Before anything else.”

            Nodding, Stiles made noises of agreement and shifted around toward the direction of Gerard’s building. The leaders of the camp had taken over the small community building as a sort of headquarters two years ago. If there was any sort of planning going on over the werewolf that was in the hospital, that’s where they would be, and Stiles meant to stay far from it. The guards, however, didn’t need to know that.

            “You’re absolutely right,” Stiles conceded. “Right away.”

            He slipped away without further stalling, though the moment he was out of sight around the corner of a building, he doubled back and headed for one of the more familiar apartment buildings on the block. Grey brick on the outside, yellowing plaster on the inside, three stories high. His father’s door read 312 and he didn’t bother knocking. There was no point in locked doors anymore.

            There wasn’t time for this and he knew it, but he also had questions that needed answers; he needed to see his father before any of this went sideways. He wouldn't have long, he knew, but he had to see him, even just for a minute or two.

 

* * *

 

            When he let himself in, the apartment was quiet. He let the door fall shut with a clack and padded softly toward the bedroom and the faint sounds of his father rousing. There was still time to turn and leave, to not burden his father with any of the million things he wanted to say, to ask. Eyes closing, he rapped softly on the wood of the cracked door.

            "Dad?" he called.

            "Stiles? Hang on," his dad requested, and Stiles could hear him grabbing clothing. "You're here early, is everything okay?"

            For a moment, a split second, Stiles considered lying. He considered telling his father everything was fine, saying he just wanted to see him for a few minutes before patrol, have a glass of water or something. They would have a rare morning of smiles, and if things went poorly, at least his dad would always have that; he would remember Stiles smiling. He swallowed down his guilt.

            "Not really," he said, voice cracking as he leaned against the door frame.

Seconds later his father drew open the door and regarded him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

            Stiles huffed, a small, broken bit of laughter. "Not really," he repeated. "But I need to."

            "Ah," his father said, moving forward so that Stiles had to back up, and together they began walking down the hall toward the small kitchen. "I know that tone, and I think I'm going to want to sit down for this."

            Once they were settled at the little table in the kitchen, his dad lamenting the lack of coffee in the apocalypse, Stiles plowed ahead. "I don't have a lot of time, but you remember when we talked about the supers? I asked if we were wrong, and you told me I could ask a super next time I found a nice one?" His father nodded, and he looked down at his hands folded on the table. "What if there were a chance to- to ask. What if I had a way to find out? Hypothetically."

            Light dawned in his father's eyes, and he nodded slowly, considering the idea. Stiles knew his father wasn't stupid; they both knew there was no hypothetical about this situation, not if Stiles was asking like this.

            "You should take it," his father said. "I mean, if you had a chance. Hypothetically."

            Stiles closed his eyes, nodding a little. "And what if-" His voice broke and he cleared his throat to try again. "And what if it meant leaving? Leaving… all of this."

            "Well," he said slowly. "I guess you'd have to weigh the price versus the profit. Is finding out important enough to do that? To leave all of this behind?"

            "I don't know," Stiles sighed, head dropping into his hands, chest tight. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Maybe. It's... it feels like it would be more important than me. Like it could- like everything would change, you know? Like maybe we wouldn't have to go on patrols and watch our backs and live like refugees anymore. Like maybe if we knew, we could just _live_ again."

            Getting up, his father rounded the table to reach him and Stiles scooted out to face him. When his father's hands laid warm and comforting on his shoulders, Stiles almost broke. "Stiles," he said, waiting until Stiles looked him in the eyes. "Is something wrong? Did something happen?"

            Panic rose in Stiles' throat, cutting off his words for a moment, because _yes_ something had happened and he needed his father to know all of it. He wanted to protect him _so badly_ , needed him to understand why Stiles was doing any of this. He needed to be able to say goodbye in case he didn't make it back.

            Instead, he just got to his feet and pulled his father into a crushingly tight hug. "It's fine," he managed to mumble into his shoulder, tears stinging at his eyes. "Everything's fine. I just- I wanted to come by and see you and uh- I just-  I love you, Dad."

            Returning the hug, his dad rested his chin on Stiles' shoulder. "I love you too, kiddo. It's gonna be okay."

            Stiles closed his eyes. It wasn't okay, and it probably wasn't going to be okay, and they both knew it. Even if he never said a word of it aloud, he knew his father understood that something was going on, something big. Something which could take Stiles away from him. Stiles held on tighter for another heartbeat, and then pulled away.

            "I gotta go, Dad," he told him, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. They were red and he knew how obvious it was that he was on the verge of crying. His dad didn't say a word about it.

            "Okay," his dad said softly. Stiles remembered that tone. He used to use it in the hospital after they visited his mom. "I'm glad you came."

            Stiles nodded, throat closed around whatever else he might have been able to say, and headed for the exit. His father remained where he was, watching as Stiles turned the knob, drew open the door, and hesitated. Looking over his shoulder, Stiles forced himself to smile; it was watery, but he wanted his father to remember him smiling. "Take care of yourself. And, you know, look out for Scott."

            It wasn't goodbye, he told himself. He didn't say the words, neither of them said the words. It felt like his chest was being crushed.

            "Be safe, kiddo," his father told him. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

            Once more, Stiles nodded, and then he was out the door, the soft click haunting him down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

            Allison looked up when he entered, gaze sliding off to the side to check for company. "Lydia and Jackson?" she asked softly.

Stiles shook his head, shutting the door behind himself. "They're outside the camp. I don't have a lot of time."

            The nod she gave told him that she'd guessed much quicker than his father. "They're not coming back, are they."

            Dragging one hand over his mouth, Stiles shook his head again. He moved across the room, snagging the wheeled stool he'd abandoned only a couple of hours ago. Everything had seemed like it was going to work so perfectly then. "They're not coming back," he agreed as he took a seat, resting his forearms on the edge of her bed. She took one of his hands in hers and offered him a comforting smile. "They're leaving with the pack when we're done."

            "Done?" she echoed. "Stiles, what are you doing?"

            His eyes shuttered closed and he leaned against the bed. "Something really stupid," he said quietly. "We're going to make sure the camp thinks it was Jackson that was bitten, before he leaves."

            "And Peter?" she asked.

            "I'm going to let him go," Stiles mumbled.

            "He's killed people. Friends," she said. He hated how simple of a reminder it was, no accusation.

            "He'll take every one of us down with him if we don't kill him or make him leave," Stiles responded, sighing. He'd thought about this, knew that he couldn't kill Peter in cold blood; if not because Peter was a person, then because Derek was. “He’ll tell them everything. I can’t let him do that.”

            "Okay," Allison said, giving his hand a little squeeze. "You'll make sure Lydia knows I said goodbye?"

            "Of course," Stiles told her, squeezing back and then standing to press a kiss to her cheek. She turned a little, until he could rest his forehead against hers, both of their eyes closed as they soaked up the comfort of the moment. "I'm gonna protect you," Stiles whispered. "I'm going to make sure Scott's safe, no matter what. I still owe him for saving my life. You just-" he swallowed, nudging gently against her before pressing another kiss to her forehead and pulling back. "Promise me that you'll stay safe here. That you'll keep that kid safe and maybe have another one or like five or something, okay? Just-"

           "I promise," she cut him off, dragging him down into a proper hug. "I promise, Stiles," she murmured into his shoulder. He could feel the damp spot she was leaving, and he squeezed her tighter.

            He managed to disentangle himself after a few more heartbeats, eyes burning and throat tight. When she smiled at him, wiping her eyes, he nearly broke. "Do you know where Scott is?"

            "Your place," she said. "It was safest."

            She squeezed his hand one last time, and then he was heading for the door. Just as he reached it, she called out to him. Turning, he met her gaze.

            "We'll watch over... things. Everyone." Her smile was wobbly at best, but Stiles got the message. She'd look out for his dad for him.

            "Thanks," he croaked around the tightness in his throat. Then he was gone, heading for his own apartment.

 

* * *

 

            He found Scott sitting on the side of his bed, an old, worn Rubik's cube in his hands. Stiles remembered the day they had found it in one of the abandoned living spaces of the town. Their team had been helping to expand the protected area for the camp, moving into two new buildings so that newcomers could spread out a little more. When he had lifted the cube, he had shown it off to Scott, who told him to put it down because it didn't belong to him.

            "Finders keepers," Stiles had told him cheekily, giving it a toss and catching it with a plastic clack.

            Now Scott was holding it like something precious, not looking up when Stiles entered. "How'd it go?" He sounded tired.

            "Jackson got what he wanted. The pack is going to take them in," Stiles said, plopping down on the edge of the bed beside him. Scott leaned closer and Stiles met him halfway, shoulders pressed together. Letting out a breath, Stiles laid his head on Scott's shoulder and plucked the toy from his hands. "If Lydia and Jackson leave, everyone will assume it was Jackson who got bit, and then you'll be safe. I'll make sure Peter leaves so he can't hurt you either. It's all going to work out."

            "You're just going to let him go?" Scott asked, watching Stiles' clever fingers twist and turn the cube. Stiles could hear the disapproval.

            "Have to," Stiles mumbled. White squares aligned with another twist. "But hey, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll get gunned down on the way out."

            "And I assume you have some master plan to not get caught doing all of this?" Scott inquired, watching the familiar pattern of twists.

            Stiles' hands slowed, just holding onto the cube without answering. He did not have a master plan to not get caught, at least not like how Scott was thinking, and they both knew it. There were only two ways this ended and, no matter which way it went, this was likely the last time they would see each other.

            "Stiles," Scott said, almost a demand. "How are you planning on getting away with this?"

            "I'm just not going to get caught, okay?" Stiles said, twisting the cube again. "I'll figure it out as I go."

            "That's a really bad plan, Stiles," Scott told him. No anger, just fatigue.

            "Yeah, well I don't have a better one right now, and we're out of time," Stiles replied. Maybe he should have been bitter, but he couldn't do it. This was Scott, who had saved his life more than once, who had rescued him and his father from the wilderness of the apocalypse.

            "So you're just going to sacrifice yourself?" Scott asked. Stiles closed his eyes at how _hurt_ he sounded. Like Stiles was doing this just to abandon him.

            "You want to die?" Stiles murmured. "If I don't do this, they put a bullet through your heart. Scott, you've got Allison to look out for now. You're going to be a father in like a week. You can't leave her alone, and if they catch you, they catch me anyway. They catch Allison. They catch Jackson and Lydia and Danny. Maybe Matt too. Everyone."

            "Okay," Scott said, exasperated. "I get it. I still don't like it."

            Stiles smiled weakly, setting aside the toy and holding out his hand palm up against Scott's thigh. Sighing, Scott slipped his hand into it and gave a quick squeeze. It was as much acceptance as Stiles was ever going to get. He could feel his eyes stinging but he didn't wipe them clean this time. Of anyone, Scott knew him best; seeing him cry was nothing novel. He let out a shaky breath.

            "Thanks," he whispered, throat tight. "For saving me when we met. And, you know. Everything else."

            Scott let out a little, breathy huff of laughter and chased it with a sniffle before he wiped at his eyes. "You're such an idiot. I'm supposed to be thanking you."

            "Sorry," Stiles mumbled, unsure if he meant for stealing the gratitude or for having to put himself in a position where he might not return. "We're going to feel really silly when I get away with this, you know."

            "I hope so," Scott told him. "I hope we feel so silly we get to tell our grandkids about it until they're sick of hearing it."

            Stiles smiled tightly. "Me too."

            Pressing a little closer, Stiles sat up to lean his temple against Scott's, and his best friend slumped into him. For a moment they sat like that, Stiles feeling like someone was wrenching his heart from his chest, until he couldn't stand it any longer. He gave Scott's hand a final squeeze and then released him.

            "I should go." They rose together and Scott pulled Stiles into a tight hug that brought fresh tears to Stiles' eyes. He buried his face in Scott's shoulder and clung to him, giving himself just one moment longer. "Take care of my dad, okay? If they get me." He hated how his voice broke over the words, muffled by Scott's shirt.

            "Don't let them get you, okay?"

            "Scott."

           "I'll take care of him, of course I'll take care of him," Scott assured him. Stiles could hear the wobble in his voice, too. "Take care of you."

            "I will," Stiles promised. "I'll come back."

            Scott nodded. Stiles wondered if he could hear the uptick in his heart. He decided it didn't matter.

 

* * *

 

            "They all knew," Morrell marveled, unable to help herself. "They all knew you would leave."

            "Mm, I don't know," Stiles said, eyes glassy. "I think my dad knew. I'm not sure he _believed_ , until I didn't come back, but I think he knew. Scott and Allison..." He shrugged, looking up toward the ceiling. "One way or another, I didn't expect to come back. I thought- you know, it was so dangerous, there was no way we'd all escape the camp alive."

            Spreading out the papers from one of her folders, she glanced at them until she found the one she wanted. It hissed against the metal of the table as she slid it toward him. "The reports say there were injuries, but no fatalities. No kills."

            "We didn't kill anyone." He ignored the paper. "They didn't kill any of us, even if they wanted to."

            "You got away."

            "We lived," Stiles told her. "I'm surprised they didn't catch Scott."

            With pursed lips, she tried to track his change in subject. "They didn't catch you either, Stiles. How did that happen?"

            He finally dragged his gaze down, met her eyes. She could see him trying to focus on her, blinking slowly, breath rasping in and out like it was a chore. "He saved us," he said simply.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles rapped on the hollow metal door and called Peter's name the moment before he unlatched it, allowing it to swing open. Peter was already waiting on the other side. He dropped a glance to the guard lying prone on the floor, but when he began to kneel, claws shifting out from his fingertips, Stiles grabbed his arm.

            "No killing," he said. "If we do this, no killing. You've done enough."

            Peter regarded him blandly for a moment, then straightened up. "This one saw you."

            "I know," Stiles said.

            "He'll tell someone when he wakes," Peter tried again, as if Stiles wasn't getting the point.

            "I _know_ ," Stiles growled, grabbing Peter's arm and steering him down the hallway. "But I'm not just going to kill people, especially not these people."

            "I could," Peter offered, digging in his heels and stopping Stiles dead. "I could kill him. You would be blameless."

            Glancing back, Stiles looked at the limp, prone form of the guard. Kim, if he recalled correctly. His team ranged one of the north east patrol zones. He had a little girl. Sometimes they ate lunch together in the cafeteria.

            For a moment, Stiles considered it anyway.

            He could stay here, stay near his dad.

            Peter could solve the problem in a matter of seconds.

            "No," he said softly, tugging again on Peter's arm. This time Peter came with him easily.

            There was a lot of road between the hospital and the east gate, but Stiles had timed their escape well. It was late enough that the first patrols had headed out already but early enough that the streets were still empty of those not on schedule. Peter alerted him to the people along the path, in more than enough time to avoid all but two other denizens, both easily dealt with by the werewolf.

            As they turned the last corner before the eastern gate, Stiles raised an arm, holding it out to keep Peter back. Jackson and Lydia were standing with their hands out, obviously waiting for instructions. They had arrived just after the patrols left, exactly when they had agreed, and got detained just like they'd planned.

            He cursed silently. There was no way to tell exactly how long they'd been waiting. It would take less than fifteen minutes for word to get to Gerard, and they were out of luck when that happened. The camp leader would know something was going on when he had no idea what they were talking about because Stiles had never reported.

            "Jackson," Stiles hissed. A little flicker of pride thrilled through him when Jackson looked up, searching for the source of the word. "On your eight. I've got the wolf."

            The infinitesimal nod Jackson gave was accompanied by a movement of his lips, but Stiles was much too far to hear. Peter murmured behind him: "He says Derek and the others are coming."

            They all looked upward as the sound of a hand-cranked siren filled the air, the same as had started the night before. Gerard was onto them. "Now or never," Stiles told Peter, moving out of the alley where they had stopped.

            Fifty yards beyond the guard station, the tree-line erupted in movement. Stiles shouted and waved an arm, drawing the attention of all of the guards at once. Making use of the distraction, Jackson set upon the closest guard and Lydia ducked out of the way, dropping to the ground to kick the feet out from under the guard. A moment later, the wolf pack was upon the station, snarls and gunfire filling the air.

            The fight was short; the four guards that had been left went down without much of a chance at fighting back, leaving the whole group standing over their bodies looking amongst themselves. Stiles' eyes were wide as he took in the sight of the transformed group, Derek staring back with bright red eyes. He hadn't expected the wolves to show up to help, but it had made things faster, easier. He wondered how many of the men and women at their feet were still breathing. He wondered if he had time to care.

            "Thanks," Stiles breathed. The siren was still loud in the air, and all of the wolves except Derek had their heads tipped in the same fashion, listening to something Stiles couldn't hear. "You need to get out of here."

            "He was seen," Peter pointed out idly, as if he were observing the weather. Everyone turned their attention to him and he shrugged. "Three times. In an hour or two, the camp will know who let me out."

            Derek turned to Stiles, thick brows furrowing. "Is that true?"

            Rolling his eyes, Stiles looked away. "Yes," he admitted. "But I'll deal with it."

            "They'll kill you," Lydia said. "Or kick you out."

            "I _know_ , Lydia," Stiles ground out, grabbing Peter's arm and walking him toward the entrance in the hopes that the rest would follow.

            "Stiles," Derek commanded from behind him, and Stiles' shoulders dropped at the tone. His eyes closed and when he turned to look, Derek was fully human again. His voice was soft, almost pleading, completely at odds with the harsh noises all around them. "Come with us."

            The offer was exactly what Stiles had hoped for, but now that it was before him, the idea _terrified_ him. Since the moment they had first encountered the pack, since Derek had first told him _we don't kill humans_ , Stiles had wanted a chance to find out if they were the only ones, to find out if everything they had all assumed for so long was wrong. If he stayed, he would never know, but if he left there would be no one to watch Scott and Allison's backs anymore. If he left, his father would be alone.

            "Come with us," Derek repeated softly, reaching out just enough to brush along Stiles' forearm, along the edge of his palm.

            His father had told him to go.

            He could hear the shouting now, the approach of camp defense, and he knew they were fast running out of time.

            "Are there others?" he demanded, not meaning to sound quite so desperate.

            "Others?" Derek asked, sparing a glance in the direction of the noise. The pack was moving around them, heading out past the edge of the station. "What others?"

            "Other supers," Stiles clarified. "Ones that don't want to fight, that don't want to hurt us. Have you met others like you?"

            "A few," Derek told him, sounding bewildered. "We don't talk to most others, but we've met a few. Does it matter?"

            "It matters," Stiles breathed, taking a shaky step in the direction of the rest of the pack. He had to know.

            It must have shown on his face because a moment later Derek had him by the arm, tugging him away from the camp just as the gunfire started. They ducked, Derek transforming and dropping to the ground to run, though he didn't outpace Stiles. The others were reaching the forest when Stiles turned back to check their pursuit. A dozen people had reached the gate. He didn't have to hear them to know that there would be a chase.

            The light of the small explosion at the gate reached Stiles a moment before the sound and he stumbled sideways a little in shock, eyes flickering around for the source of the grenade. A quick motion caught his eye, from atop the short wall that surrounded the protected area of the camp, to the right of the gate.

            Scott, watching them depart.

            Stiles smiled, throat closing as he stood tall for a split second. His voice would never reach Scott over the ruckus, and so he raised one hand and saluted. Scott raised a hand to wave, and the morning sun glinted off the grenade pin ring on his finger. A short, rough laugh escaped Stiles.

            Once again, he found himself owing Scott.

           Then his best friend was making a shooing motion, sending him on his way, before disappearing entirely from the wall.

            "Stiles," Derek called from where he had paused a few paces ahead of him. "We have to go."

            For a split second, Stiles hesitated. There was so much behind him that he wasn't sure how he was going to manage to go forward. He felt utterly _lost_ the moment he turned to meet Derek's eyes.

            "He saved us," Derek said, before Stiles' doubt could sink its claws too deep. "Don't let it go to waste. He'll be okay."

            Looking beyond him, Stiles caught sight of the pack, waiting for them at the tree line. He looked to Derek, who was watching him with concern, and then nodded once. "Okay," he said.

            They hit the edge of the forest together, and Stiles didn't look back again.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles looked up. "What?"

            "Scott," she clarified, making a vague motion with one hand. "When they asked about the grenade that was detonated at the gate, Scott told them he saw you throw it, and that's how he managed to avoid being hurt."

            The laugh that startled out of Stiles surprised her. It was genuine, the first she had heard that held no bitterness, no fatigue. It was... nice, and she felt an answering smile play on her lips as she saw the echo of who he must have been once upon a time. In that moment of crystal lucidity, she caught her first real glimpse of his past self and found herself aching with the loss of it.

           "Yeah, that sounds about right," he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. "I still can't believe he threw a _grenade_. There were only a couple in camp." He shook his head, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips. "I'd take the blame any day. He saved our lives. We should have just taken them with us."

            "I'm sorry," she said, soft and sincere. She wasn't sure what else there was to say to that. Nothing anyone could say would make up for what he had been through, but she knew she wanted to make it right.

            "You're not," Stiles told her. "But that's okay."

            "I wish it could have ended differently," she said instead.

            "It should have," Stiles agreed, leaning back in his chair.

            She regarded him in silence for a few moments, and then reached forward and swept her papers into a tidy pile, inserting them back into the folder from whence they'd come. "I have to take this up to the council," she told him. She hesitated, all of her materials in a neat stack. "They only need the records of when you were at the camp, and when you returned."

            Stiles flicked his gaze up, meeting her eyes. "But?"

            "But," she continued. "My people would like to hear about the rest, if you're willing to tell me. We want to hear about your- your pack." She stressed the word, hoping it was the right one to make him understand that she was on his side. "I am here for their story as much as I am yours."

            Nodding, Stiles looked away again. "I'll tell you," he said.

            "Thank you." She scooped up the papers, giving him a last once-over. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

            Though he gave no response, no noise at all, she felt Stiles' eyes on her until the moment the door closed behind her.

 

* * *

 

            The oldest building in the town was the town hall and courthouse. Located at the northern perimeter of the protected area, it squatted, tan-grey and old, the decorative pillars out front holding the stone plaque that read Town Hall. Allison had been there hundreds, thousands of times to check in on her grandfather, to bring messages, to take messages, to take part in planning for the camp. Now it stood mostly empty, devoid of Gerard's personal teams.

            In the heart of the building, she found the courtroom. It hadn't been used as a courtroom in years; dust had built on the railings and decorations, along the picture frames and the bench seating. As she walked steadfastly down the main aisle toward the front podium, she could practically smell the age of the place, sense how deeply it had slept before the seven people seated at the head of the room dared disturb it.

            They were the newly-formed camp council, and Allison knew every one of them just as all of them knew her. Dead-center stood her father, watching her calmly. She nodded to him, tossing a glance to the witness stand. Jane sat within the box, smiling but silent. She was here to observe only, to record whatever she needed to take back with her to seal this deal.

            "Allison," her father greeted, drawing her attention away from Jane. "Have a seat."

            With a quick glance left and right, she chose to move to the right hand pair of chairs, the ones at the small table that she thought usually belonged to the defendant. She'd never been good with courthouse rules and didn't see a reason to go through all of this. She'd told her story before; they knew what they needed, everyone except Jane.

            "I assume you know everyone," her father told her. She nodded. "Are you ready, then?"

            "Yes, sir," she told him.

            "Ms. Jane?" Chris inquired, his tone so official that Allison was having a difficult time taking him seriously. But Jane just nodded her agreement, and he turned back to Allison. "Go ahead then."

            "Where do you want me to start?" she asked quietly, glancing between her father and Jane. It wasn't the council that needed convincing of anything.

            Shuffling paper, what looked like a couple dozen pages of handwritten notes, Jane grabbed a piece and placed it in front of her. "If you would, please begin with what happened when Danny and Jackson returned to the camp alone."

            Of course it would be that day.

            She cleared her throat, straightening in her seat and smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jeans. "Okay," she said, more to steady herself than to agree. She took a breath, and began. "The day Danny and Jackson came back. That was the day Scott was bitten..."

 

* * *

 

End Part 1


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I know that it's been 3 years... literally... but I promised I would finish this... so here is the next chapter...

 

**The Final Pack**

**Part 2 | Chapter 9**

( _end of January_ ) 

* * *

 

 

            _We took him with us. We took all three of them with us- two humans and a turnwolf who’s just days away from his first moon. Boyd and Erica think it’s a bad idea. Isaac won’t say he thinks the same, but I know he does. Laura went running alone as soon as we made camp and hasn’t come back yet. Peter hasn’t said a word. Maybe my pack is right, but I couldn’t have left the others behind to die. Still can’t. We did this to them as much as they did this to us. We’re in it together now._

_Mom used to tell me even the moon can’t hold onto us forever, and that things always look different in the morning. I hope she’s right._

 

* * *

 

            Stiles sat with his back pressed into the corner, toes curled under the single blanket and weathered journal open in his lap. Part of him wanted to read onward, to delve into all of the memories, but the rest of him wanted to shy away, keep his past at arm’s length. If he did not touch it, it could not hurt him. He could not give it away if he let it fade into fuzzy memory.

            _We should not be forgotten._

            Derek’s words, there on the first page of the journal, written in such a familiar hand. Just by looking at them, Stiles’ heart climbed into his throat and he closed his eyes, waiting until he could breathe again. They should not be forgotten. They deserved to be remembered.

            Stiles had promised Morrell that he would tell her their story tomorrow.

            He would not forget them.

            No one would forget them.

            He turned the page.

 

* * *

 

            The rain started again almost as soon as they were out of view of the camp, and Stiles regretted not having brought any better protection with him than the hood of his shirt. It was already soaked through, clinging wetly to him. Most of the wolves had chosen to travel the rain in their true wolf forms, stashing their clothing in the little, makeshift cart Boyd had built back at the abandoned house. He had fortunately had the foresight to stash it along their escape route for pick up.

            The group had run for as far as they were able, but Lydia was not used to extended treks at full tilt. Two hours in, she had finally just sat down in the mud and refused to go farther. Jackson had sat beside her, leaving Stiles feeling torn. They _had_ to keep moving, had to get out of the range of the Beacon Hills Camp patrols. The destruction Scott had wreaked with the grenade would occupy their attention for a while, but Gerard was known for holding grudges. He _would_ send hunters after them, after Peter in particular, and they needed to be long gone before then.

            “We’ve got to keep moving,” Stiles had told her softly, crouched at her side. He had traded a look with Jackson, and known without asking that although Jackson was not tired at all, he wouldn’t leave Lydia behind. “At least walking.”

            She had glared at him, but after another moment had heaved herself to her feet and started to trudge in the correct direction. Jackson had gone to stay beside her, but Stiles had stayed where he was, eyes slipping over to Derek’s huge, black form. His eyes had dipped in apology and then flicked back to his friends.

            “She’s never done this,” he had explained, pitched like he was talking to himself but knowing the wolf would hear him. All of them would. “She’ll get used to it.”

            Derek had stared at him a moment longer, red eyes shining in the overcast, and then he had turned and trotted off after the rest of the wolves. Stiles wondered if the werewolves could talk to each other even like this, with the long jaws and flat tongues of apex predators. He wondered what it sounded like to them. He supposed it didn’t matter; he didn’t speak the language but he still got the message- get it together.

            Noon had come and gone by the time they stopped to rest, and Isaac helped Laura pass food around from inside the cart. Boyd shook out his shoulders nearby, stretching his lupine form in odd patterns to try and ease the stiffness from having the harness attached to him. It was little more than ropes and scrap wood, and Stiles promised himself he would help make a better one as soon as they were out of harm’s way.

            Derek brought him a serving of the meat he had helped cure and dry what felt like a lifetime ago in the basement, and then took a seat next to him. He had at least put on pants, a fact for which Stiles was eternally grateful. He didn’t think he was capable of having a serious conversation with a naked werewolf.

            “We’ll be coming up on Penryn Camp before nightfall,” Derek said softly, watching Stiles pick apart the muscle. “It’s the last human settlement before we hit the mountains. If you want out, that’s your only chance.”

            “I don’t want out,” Stiles told him, glancing over just in time to see Derek relax a little. “I want _out_ ,” he added, nodding his head to the wilderness around them, in the direction of the Rockies. He had left Beacon Hills Camp to be free, to be out in the world, and he wanted Derek to understand that. To believe him.

            “And your friends?” Derek asked, meeting his gaze. “You think they’ll want to stay with us after today?”

            “Today was nothin’,” Stiles assured him, knowing full well the wolf could hear the uptick of his heart. “A little skirmish, a bit of rain, a good run…” He trailed off, his hands falling to his lap, still clutching his dinner. He twitched a little smile he didn’t feel. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s gonna be rough for us, starting out. I don’t know if we’re gonna be okay. We’ll probably slow you down, and we’ll probably get you into trouble- maybe more than we’re worth. But we _do_ want to be here.”

            Derek studied him a moment longer, and then nodded. “That’s good enough for me.”

            “And your friends?” Stiles asked, echoing Derek’s previous question before Derek could get up.

            Derek’s gaze dropped then, jaw clenching as he gave a little shake of his head. Stiles could tell he was searching for an answer that was not a perfunctory dismissal of the question. “They’re worried about what comes next, but it’s not their decision. You’re… well, they’ll get over it.”

            After that, Derek didn’t make a move to leave again. Stiles didn’t ask any more questions, just plucked at food, taking small bites and letting the flavor keep his mouth wet. He wasn’t sure about the water situation out here, but he could remember the beginning. He remembered filling canteens from runoff and puddles, when the plumbing had stopped working. This group had a couple of bottles in the cart, but not enough for everyone to have their own, which made him wonder if they mostly just found water while out running.

            While they packed up to go, Derek moved back to the cart to shed what little clothing he had donned, and Lydia and Jackson came to find Stiles.

            “Penryn’s ahead,” Jackson said, pointing north east. “They’re friendly with camp- with Beacon Hills. If they see us…”

            Stiles looked into the distance, though he could not possibly see the other camp from here. “Beacon Hills runners haven’t caught up to us yet, so I don’t think they’ll have reached Penryn before us. As long as they don’t see our new _friends_ , we should be able to pass without a problem.”

            “You know, and more importantly _they_ know, that camp doesn’t send patrols this far north unless there’s a problem,” Jackson reminded him. “They’ll want to talk. They’ll want to know what we’re doing in their territory.”

            “Passing through,” Stiles said immediately. “Just scouts passing through.”

            He had spent the last few hours running circles around any excuse he could give to the scouts from Penryn. They were nearly to the edge of the territory, roughly five miles out if he remembered correctly. He had been here before and while it was unlikely that they would happen to be in the exact same location at the same time as any scouts to be recognized, Stiles had always thought _better safe than sorry_ held up as excellent advice when trying to get away with something. He didn’t always _follow_ that advice, but it was still _good_.

            “Running info east of them,” Lydia said quietly, and Stiles was not surprised she had concluded they could get away with saying Beacon Hills had sent them. Despite her lack of field work, she had probably reached that conclusion before him, if he was honest. “Beacon Hills uses three person scouting groups, and has sent message runners north to Penryn and south to New Rio four times a year for the last two years. We could believably have been sent to go farther this year.”

            “Yeah, I think that’ll work. I went on the long scout last year,” Stiles added. “Gerard always talked about expanding trade, but Penryn wouldn’t send people past five miles out. So, if they find us, we’ll just tell them we were sent to look farther, maybe up by where Auburn used to be.”

            “You think it’s gone?” Lydia asked.

            “I think we’d have heard from them if they were still around,” Stiles said. “Or Penryn would have, since they’re less than ten miles apart.”

            That was apparently sobering, as Jackson moved a little closer to Lydia protectively. Through the woods ahead, the wolves started to move, Isaac taking a turn at being hitched to the cart to pull. Lydia gave Jackson a fleeting smile before crossing over to walk in front of the cart like she’d been doing since around noon, watching for sticks and rocks to move out of the way of the thick, wooden wheels.                                                                                                                                     

            Jackson stayed near Stiles, lagging behind the group to bring up the rear. Stiles glanced over, unused to Jackson choosing his company over Lydia’s, but he kept his mouth shut, waiting. They were nearly two miles along the edge of Penryn’s territory by the time Jackson cleared his throat and spoke.

            “They’re taking 80,” he said quietly. “If we keep on track, and they want through the mountains, they’re gonna have to take 80 across.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles agreed. That much he had figured out already. They were almost to the highway with no sign that the group intended to turn anywhere else. It would be the safest escape from their camp, the best way to cross the mountains, but…

            “There’re dragons in the Rockies,” Jackson pointed out needlessly. Anyone that got close enough knew that. It was the reason Gerard had never tried to extend communication beyond the mountains’ border- if they were lucky, they got one traveler a year that came from the other side of the mountains and no one that set out to cross toward the East had ever come back.

            “Yeah,” Stiles said again, looking up to the grey sky above them. “That occurred to me, too. But Derek said they’d done it before. Maybe dragons don’t mess with werewolves, or maybe not a whole pack of them.”

            “You’re riding an awful lot on a bunch of monsters being honest with the humans who hurt them,” Jackson said, pointedly not looking at him.

            “You’re one of them now,” Stiles said hotly. “Or you will be in a day or two. Scott, too. You two aren’t monsters, and neither are the wolves, and maybe the dragons aren’t either. Maybe no one comes back because they don’t understand that they don’t have to fight or kill. Maybe that understanding has gotta start with us.”

            Jackson snorted, but Stiles noted the way his eyes dropped, softened- he’d hit a nerve. “When’d you get so philosophical, Stilinski?”

            Stiles huffed a laugh, eyes ticking up to catch the flick of Derek’s black tail through the underbrush far ahead of them, and didn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

            The scuffle of feet on cement stirred Stiles to consciousness, and he was halfway to his feet with a groan before he remembered where he was. Across the living room, Lydia struggled to a sitting position, eyes sticky with sleep and breath coming in sharp, short gasps. Just in case, Stiles grabbed for the length of wood he had found the night before, rusted nails pounded through one side, and beckoned Lydia over. She snatched up the crowbar beside her and joined him.

            A big, brown snout stuck around the edge of the doorframe, mouth open and tongue lolling in the golden shaft of morning sunlight. “Jackson!” Lydia breathed out, dropping her weapon to scramble across the room.

            The wolf practically threw himself into her arms, nuzzling up under her chin, almost big enough for her to ride. She buried her fingers in his long pelt just as the rest of the wolves began piling into the room. They smelled like dirt and leaves and wet fur, even though it hadn’t rained at all the night before. Stiles leaned his weapon against the wall and sat back, relieved.

            “Good to see you survived,” he called to Jackson, who shot him a look over Lydia’s shoulder that transcended the language barrier of species.

            Around them, the wolves were shaking off and using their jaws to grab up the bundles of their clothing and effects which they had packaged following dinner. The full moon had descended upon them shortly after, even before the sun set, dragging them into their wolf forms. Derek had told Stiles it would be three nights before they would be able to easily take human form again, which Stiles had already known. That was the biggest concern they’d had, trying to determine how to keep Scott safe.

            “You can turn back, though, can’t you?” Stiles had asked. He had been taught that the apex of the full moon, the middle day, was the only day wolves could not fight- Scott had hoped that he’d only have to contend with the middle day, and could fight the rest.

            “We _can_ turn back, if we have to,” Derek had hedged. “But it’s… very difficult and I don’t think our pack is stable enough for any of us to keep your form for long. Not with…” He had gestured silently to Peter, and Stiles thought he understood; the recent change in alpha, the distress the pack had been through, the new additions to the group- all of it probably had a taxing effect on the pack.

            Stiles looked over the returning wolves, most of them heading for the exit now, and nodded to himself. “Lydia,” he said, and she looked over her shoulder at him, hands still in Jackson’s fur. “Time to go, I think.”

            Before their shift, the wolves had gotten them around Penryn’s territory and up to Auburn without incident. The town was a wreck, half of it burned to the ground, the rest looted almost beyond recognition. Broken glass scattered in the streets, cars torn apart, no buildings with intact doors left. They had taken refuge in one of the most stable-looking homes, blockading every entrance with busted furniture until only the front door remained open.

            As soon as the wolves had left, Stiles had taken Lydia out to scavenge. There was not much, not six years after the apocalypse and whatever had happened to the town, but they had managed to find a bag of cereal stashed in a bedroom, and four cans of ravioli in a basement that had nearly collapsed on itself. What appeared to be clean water had gathered in a rupture in the ground, and Stiles had filled the bottles they carried while Lydia began to crack the lid on one of the cans of ravioli on a rock, the way most people had learned to do when can openers became difficult to find.

            Everything remained dead silent the entire time, not even insects or birds making good-night noises. Stiles knew what that meant, knew that something predatory lurked nearby- he just hoped that it was their pack and not something worse. Still, he’d pried a loose board free from a damaged section of house, and Lydia found her crowbar half buried within a gaping-open garage.

            He had never really liked guns, but he missed his now.

            The last instruction they had been given before the pack surrendered to the call of the moon was that they would need to head to highway 80. It was just outside of town, easy to find by following the signs, easy to walk to in daylight even with the pack scattering and reforming around them as they went.

            “Yeah, time to go,” Lydia agreed, clambering to her feet, crowbar in hand. Jackson fetched his own bundle and then pressed up against her legs, his back level with her hips, tail wagging slowly. “Everyone got everything?” she asked, looking around at the collected wolves.

            With muffled sounds of agreement, they trotted out into the dawning daylight, Stiles bringing up the rear and giving the room a last once-over. He hadn’t missed being on the road like this, having to keep track of everything he owned every time they abandoned a questionably safe space for the unknown. He wondered if Derek had a destination in mind or if the intent was to travel forever. He wondered if it mattered and decided that, all things considered, it probably did not. There was nowhere safe that he knew of for supernatural creatures to go as a destination.

            They passed through the ruins of the town without incident, detouring only briefly to pick up the cart from where they had parked it in a tight copse of trees because the streets in town had been too full of clutter to get over easily. After the others had loaded their belongings into the cart, Peter slipped into the harness and began to pull without letting them check the ties. Boyd gave what appeared to be a surprised look to Stiles – who had been walking over with him to get him into the harness – and then kept walking, obviously not going to worry about it.

            For the most part, traveling with a pack of werewolves was nothing like what Stiles expected. Logic said that the journey would not be all battles and running and howling at the moon, but he had thought that there would be… more.

            Instead, he apparently got a group of energetic puppies. Peter plodded along, pulling the cart and looking up and around while everyone else romped through the brush on the right side of the road. Jackson stayed close to Lydia for a while, but the miles and miles of open road around them were apparently not stimulating enough, and he eventually took off to play with the others. The unusually playful behavior prickled at Stiles’ skin, but he chalked the new behavior up to Jackson’s new wolfish instincts.

            Stiles still vowed to tease him about it later. Mercilessly.

            By the time they stopped to rest and eat, the sun was high in the sky and they had gone several miles into the mountains. The air hadn’t gotten any colder, but it was crisper, less humid than the forest, a breeze whisking up the back of Stiles’ neck now and again like an icy-fingered caress. All of the wolves, even Peter, had disappeared, their eerie howls echoing from every direction.

            “Hunting,” Stiles guessed when Lydia asked. He peeled a sinewy piece of meat free from the small strip and popped it into his mouth. “They probably need way more food during the full moon.” The thought made him wonder how Scott would cope with the increased food intake, given the way the camp rationed food stores. If he needed more, he’d have to find it himself.

            She looked out from the roadside, into the thick wilderness now surrounding them. “It’s weird,” she said softly. “They’re not just keeping food here for us. Vernon already had the cart built by the time we asked to go with them. But wouldn’t it make more sense to just… stay like this? Just live like wolves, eat what they hunt, be wild? Why bother changing into a weaker form? Why bother with a cart to keep human things in, if they could just be wolves?”

            Stiles followed her gaze out to the slopes bracketing the woods, listening to the long, low wails of their traveling companions. The thought had occurred to him as well. In such a harsh world, taking on the soft skin of humans seemed like a dangerous thing to do. Maybe if they could have incorporated themselves into human settlements, if the moon held no sway over them, it would be a wise practice, but out here Lydia was right. It would be easier to survive like true wolves.

            “But they’re not wolves,” Stiles said quietly. It was the only conclusion he’d been able to draw when the question had been gnawing at him. She glanced over, quirking a brow, and he gave a small shrug. “They’re not animals. They don’t stop having a human side just because they turn into wolves. Maybe they just don’t want to forget that.”

            Lydia made a thoughtful little noise and popped the last of her jerky into her mouth before wrapping her hands around her knees. She leaned back against their wagon wheel and closed her eyes. “How far to the other side, do you think?” she asked, changing the subject.

            “Considering I don’t think we’re even _in_ the mountains yet…” Stiles told her, trailing off as he shaded his eyes to look down the road. “Pretty far.”

            “I meant in miles, asshole,” Lydia chided, shoving at his arm. Stiles didn’t give, and she looked over at him.

            He squinted at the figures in the distance, hand still over his eyes. Low in the sky, he could see a flock of something very large heading their way, flying erratically. At first he had thought they were closer, birds of some kind or maybe large bats, but they weren’t getting closer fast enough to be that small. His belly dropped into his boots as he realized what they were and began scrambling to his feet. They were too far west for this.

            “Shit! Get up, up!” he hissed, grabbing for his weapon and her arm simultaneously. “Dragons!”

            Lydia’s attention snapped to the east and he felt her jerk in his hand when she saw the beasts in the distance. They were _way_ too far west, barely at the edge of the Sierra Nevadas. Stiles hadn’t expected to see dragon-sign for days still, much less find himself staring down an entire flight headed directly for them. They had to have been seen; from what little he had heard, dragons had far better eyesight than humans and there was nothing else in their path now. However, he also knew they had no sense of smell, due to the burning chemicals they could spit. If he and Lydia could make it to the underbrush, they might be able to escape and hide.

            “This way,” he murmured, giving her arm a pat before letting go, aware that she didn’t need his help. She grabbed up her crowbar and leaned into the wagon just enough to snatch a bundle of meat strips before she followed him.

            Clever, he thought as he ducked off the road and headed for cover, Lydia hot on his heels.

            It was as they hit the dubious cover of the closest pine trees that it occurred to him that life noise had ceased. No more birds, no more wolf calls. Before he had time to hope that meant the wolves had hunkered down somewhere, the pack burst from the underbrush ahead of them. Their paws were nearly silent, tails up as they headed straight toward the road- straight for the incoming danger.

            “Derek!” Stiles shouted as flatly as possible, but the alpha’s sleek black form was already hopping onto the cement, Erica and Laura to either side of him, Boyd and Isaac at his heels. Jackson, at least, had circled around Lydia and remained close, ready to protect her. “Hey, did you miss the _dragons_?”

            Derek looked back at him, ears up and tail swishing before he turned his attention up to the dragons like he expected to greet them. The sound of wingbeats was now audible, growing louder with every passing second. Stiles swallowed hard, hands wrapped around his makeshift weapon, eyes flicking between the dragons and the werewolves that were gathering to face them head-on.

            All Stiles could see of them as they approached was pitch black, sheathed in the blue and green and purple of iridescence, blue eyes bright in their wedge-shaped skulls. With wingspans easily fifty feet wide, the flight of dragons filled the sky as they drew closer. They were too close to avoid a confrontation now.

            “We don’t stand a chance,” Lydia murmured, fingers tightening in Jackson’s fur. He leaned into her and whined. “Seven dragons- there’s no way.”

            “Why aren’t they running?” Stiles asked, raising his voice over the thunderous beat of wings as the dragons approached. Their pitched shrieks overlaid the noise of their wings and raised the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck, but the wolves remained where they were, paws planted, heads up, ready.

            “It’s too late now,” Lydia shouted back, looking like she felt as helpless as Stiles did. There was precious little two humans were going to be able to do against an entire flight of dragons.

            “Derek!” Stiles yelled again, torn between running to help anyway and retreating farther into the woods. The first of the dragons stooped, membranous wings folding tight to its body, and Stiles took a staggering step forward to help before freezing again at what he saw.

            There was someone on its back.

            The ground shuddered as the dragon hit the pavement with front and then back paws, skip-hopping a couple of times to lose momentum. Down the road, the other six in the flight mimicked the motion as they landed. Before the first had even come to a complete stop, the figure on its back practically tumbled off, running happily to the group of wolves.

            “Derek!” she squealed, and Stiles gawked as she hit the pack of wolves with all the enthusiasm of a whirlwind. None of the wolves on the road hesitated to make a writhing, wuffing puppy pile out of the situation, crowding in around the newcomer.

            The dragons, for their part, remained where they stood, folding their wings tight to their bodies with an ethereal kind of dignity. Stiles’ breath stuck in his chest, fingers white-knuckled on the beam of wood clutched in his hands. They were _huge_ , claws as long as his hand, teeth white against their black muzzles, eyes sharp and bright and taking everything in with an intelligence that made everything inside of Stiles cower.

            A tussled head popped up from the pile of furry bodies. “Hey,” the girl said, shoving at Laura’s shoulder to get her off of her. Before she was even on her feet entirely, her teeth were bared, sharp and long, and Stiles realized she was a wolf as well. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Human!” she shouted, and all of the dragons threw their heads back into a screech.

            Stiles braced himself for a fight he would absolutely never win just as Derek lunged forward and grabbed at the girl’s wrist with his long jaws, halting her. She turned to snarl at him, and he let go to give a loud, piercing bark back. Jackson hackled and stayed between Lydia and the girl.

            “Who the hell are you?” she snarled at Stiles, but she didn’t move closer and the dragons fell silent.

            “Stiles,” he called back, lowering his weapon. Beside him, Lydia did the same. “And this is Lydia. We’re with them. _Friends_. Who the hell are you?”

            “Cora,” she snapped back, but he could see a smile on the edge of her lips. “I’m Laura and Derek’s little sister, and I’m here to get you over the mountains.”

            “You’re what?” Lydia demanded, stepped forward to tap Jackson on the head. “Did you know about this?”

            Jackson laid his ears back, eyes wide, and shook his head in a very human gesture. Stiles knew Jackson looked at him for help, but Stiles’ eyes were glued on Derek, who was just staring right back. There was a good chance that Jackson _hadn’t_ known, but not Derek. The pack had turned up again with too-perfect timing for anything else to be true.

            “You knew,” Stiles said, not raising his voice. Derek’s head tipped a little, and Stiles got the distinct impression he was waiting for a reaction. “You wanted to see what we would do…”

            “You didn’t tell the human we were coming?” Cora asked, suddenly grinning. She ruffled Derek’s ears, much to his seeming annoyance, and then turned a more studious look upon Stiles. “Friends with werewolves, eh?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, a little defensively. “You’re friends with dragons?”

            “Something like that,” she said. “Well, come on then. I guess we’ve got some flying to do.”

            “Flying?” Lydia asked, and Cora rolled her eyes. “Where? Across the mountain ranges? Even on dragonback that will take-“

            “Look, geeze, okay?” Cora interrupted. “How about we get where we’re going, where it’s _safe_ , and then I can answer your questions.”

            Stiles couldn’t fathom what possibly lurked in this area that could argue with seven dragons and an entire pack of werewolves on the full moon, but he remembered how smashed Auburn had been. Maybe it was best if he didn’t know. He wanted to sleep again.

            “And if we want answers first?” Stiles asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

            “Then I leave your asses here and you can fend for yourselves,” Cora said with a shrug. Derek growled, but she didn’t break eye contact with Stiles and he knew that she not only meant it, she was probably capable of following through no matter what any of the others had to say about it.

            “Okay,” he finally agreed with a shrug of his own, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. “Then I guess we’re going dragon riding.”

            Unfortunately, nothing in Stiles’ entire life experience had prepared him for riding dragonback. He had, prior to the world ending, read storybooks about it, about soaring into the sky with the ground far below and the whipping of the wind all around. It had seemed quite a lot like a dream, when in fact, the reality was much more like a nightmare.

            The dragons turned out to be ridiculous on the ground, hopping around like ferrets while Cora explained how to ride, their sinuous bodies too long to easily walk for any distance. They held their wings out for balance, heads bobbing like birds, tails whippy and untamed behind them. Cora pulled down the snout of the biggest one, the one she had ridden in, and spoke in quiet tones to it before turning back to Stiles.

            Stiles should have run. He should have bolted and not looked back. Instead, he followed her instructions, strapped himself to the back of an enthusiastic, scaled hurricane, and got himself hurled into the sky alongside everyone else with nothing to go on but Cora’s word that this was sane.

            For all that the dragons had looked graceful in the distance, they were nothing short of a mess up close. They flew with their paws tucked to their chests, all of them with a shifted wolf clutched in their claws; the three biggest carried those in human forms astride their backs as well. Their wings connected to their bodies below their scapulas, huge masses of muscle stretching down to their long, flexible sternums, and every beat of their wings set their entire bodies into a wild, bucking motion. Stiles held on for dear life, eyes watering at the thunderous eddies of wind all around them, unable to hear anything.

            By the time they set down in a stretch of valley, sooner than Stiles expected and longer than he thought he could bear, Stiles’ entire body was shaking desperately. He practically fell out of the straps when Cora bounced over to undo them. The dragon he had ridden caught him with the edge of her wing, helping him gently to the ground. Stiles realized that despite how silly the beasts looked gallivanting around, he had been right in his initial assessment that there was intelligence behind their eyes.

            Cora left him to help Lydia, and Stiles took a quick glance at where they had set down. The valley stretched around a quarter mile from end to end, irregular on the sides and bordered everywhere by high, sharp outcrops of rock that didn’t look entirely natural. He didn’t remember any references saying dragons had the ability to sculpt rock, but he hadn’t read that they hopped around, either. A small reservoir sparkled in the sunshine, more than large enough for any of the dragons to submerge themselves completely if they wanted. He could see no way in or out of the glade that didn’t involve flying, which in a way made sense- the dragons didn’t need any other way into their home, and they appeared to have no problem carrying Cora if she wanted to leave.

            “Come on,” Cora called to them as soon as all the wolves were released from claws and all the humans were free of their straps.

            Around them, the dragons burst up into the sky like a flock of startled birds. They began to wing away toward where they had just come from, all save the largest of them, who stayed to watch. Cora dropped to all fours in a beta shift, and as she began to lope away, Stiles actually processed that she was a werewolf, too.

            A werewolf among dragons, out of shift on a full moon.

            “Hang on,” he called, sprinting to catch up to her and still falling behind, his muscles _aching_ in ways that said he would regret going airborne for at least another few days. “Will you just wait a second? You said you’d answer questions when we landed. We’ve landed.”

            She slowed a little, clearly listening to him but impatient. “What do you want to know that can’t possibly wait?”

            He didn’t have any questions that couldn’t wait, but he couldn’t see why they needed to, so the questions spilled out of him anyway. “How come you’re still-“ He waved a hand to encompass her form, though she didn’t look back to see it. “Why aren’t you a wolf?”

            “I’m a dragon,” she said, and the remaining dragon trumpeted as though to punctuate the words. Their sense of smell must be their only diminished sense.

            “You’re not a dragon,” Stiles said firmly, and that slowed her down further, enough to pace beside him as the others passed them by, heading for a structure across the protected glade. It blended so well with the rocks and flora that Stiles wouldn’t have noticed it if they weren’t all aimed right at it. “You’re a wolf, like them. Derek told me that werewolves have to stay in wolf form for the full moon. But you’re not.”

            For a few slow strides they crossed the valley in silence, her eyes cast down to the grass growing green beneath their feet, and Stiles realized it _was_ green. He looked around sharply, and the entire valley was green and growing and if not warm, at least not _cold_ , as if the winter could not touch here. He threw a glance back to Lydia, who had followed at a slower, more cautious pace, but her eyes were on the small lake the valley walls encompassed. He had seen her current expression dozens of times when she caught someone fudging reports; she thought this was all as strange as he did.

            “There was a human, at the start of the apocalypse, that hunted my family,” Cora said quietly, drawing his attention back. “I got separated from them. I was sixteen, lost, alone- and that’s the worst, you know? For a wolf to be alone. Most of us would rather be dead. Those that survive become _omega_.” Her lips peeled back from long canines as she said the word, as though it left a bad taste in her mouth.

            “Like you,” Stiles concluded softly. “Is that why you don’t change?”

            “No,” she said simply. “I’m not an omega. The dragons found me when I reached the mountains. Sare’hein took me in, and they became my pack, so I guess I’m technically her beta. They help me maintain control of my form.”

            Stiles nodded, starting to understand, starting to feel a little better. “But couldn’t a real pack do the same thing? Couldn’t you come with us?”

            “Us?” Cora asked, shooting him a skeptical look. That was fair enough, Stiles thought. He had only been traveling with the pack for a few days. “And no. Maybe once, but not anymore.”

            “Because you’re a dragon,” Stiles said, and she at least smiled at that, a different sort of bared teeth.

            “Yes, and no,” she said, looking back to the ground. The way she held herself, Stiles could believe she wished she had another answer. “Around a year ago, Uncle Peter and the others found me again, when they crossed our territory heading west toward Beacon Hills Camp. They wanted me to go with them.”

            “Why didn’t you?” Stiles asked gently. “You would have had a family again.” The look she turned to him showed genuine surprise, like she hadn’t expected understanding from a human. The expression was remarkably similar to the one Derek had given him once upon a time.

            “They weren’t my family anymore,” Cora said. “They were blood relatives, but they weren’t the people I knew anymore. Peter wanted to kill the one that scattered us and killed our family, but I didn’t want blood on my hands. Not even his, and especially not if it meant leaving my pack. I just wanted to forget.”

            “He didn’t,” Stiles said, and shrugged when she looked at him again. “Peter. He didn’t kill Gerard. He chose his family over revenge.”

            Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

            He swallowed, suddenly nervous about admitting his origins. “Because I came from Beacon Hills. Peter did come to kill Gerard, and got caught. I went to where they were holding him, to set him free, and I asked him what was more important- killing Gerard or being there for his family, and he chose. I chose that day, too. I left camp to come with Derek and the others.”

            She stopped then, one clawed hand raised, to regard him skeptically. “You let a werewolf loose in Gerard’s camp? You just… gave up your life and left with him? Why?” she asked. “That’s the worst plan ever.

            “I know,” Stiles agreed. It really had been the worst, looking back, but he supposed there was a saying that hindsight was 20/20 for a reason. “It was really… yeah.”

            “You should have stayed,” Cora told him, looking him up and down. “The world out here’s no place for humans any more than lone wolves.”

            “I couldn’t stay. It’s… complicated,” Stiles answered. “My friend got bitten.”

            “Jackson?” she asked, motioning with a tip of her head, and Stiles smiled at being right- they must have been able to communicate somehow, if she knew Jackson’s name already.

            “Scott, actually,” Stiles corrected. “We left him at camp. Jackson wanted the bite for… well, a lot of complicated reasons, so we tricked the camp into thinking he was the one who got bitten instead, and then we left.”

            She frowned, and began to move forward again, and Stiles glanced ahead to the low, wood-and-cobblestone dwelling at the edge of the valley. Everyone except Jackson had already nosed through the door and disappeared from view. Evidently they remembered their way around from the last time they had visited.

            “Why did _you_ leave? You are not his,” Cora said slowly, drawing his attention back. “The girl is, but you…”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, scratching at the back of his head and running one hand over his close-shaved hair. “I kinda got caught while helping your uncle escape. But, like, I think I would have left anyway. After meeting Derek and the others I just… there’s a lot of world to see out here, a lot of stuff I don’t understand, and I want to. So, here I am.”

            She snorted, almost laughter, and then picked up her pace. “You’re weird,” she told him before she completely outstripped his speed and disappeared into the house.

            When he reached the cottage and peeked inside, he was surprised to find half of the pack in their human forms, pulling on various pieces of clothing while the other half waited patiently for whatever Cora was doing. It looked a lot like she was handing out doggie treats, which was both confusing and wildly amusing, though Stiles suspected they were not an average Milkbone. The theory proved correct a moment later when Boyd finished gnawing his portion into acceptable bits and swallowed them down. A moment later, his pelt rippled and Stiles was arguably privileged to see him shift back into his human form.

            “It won’t hold forever,” Cora told Jackson when she passed him one of the gritty-looking balls. “Once the moon begins to rise, the effects wear thin. Between her call and the newness of your pack, you’ll have to change.”

            Jackson practically swallowed it in one go, over-eager to return to his first form in a way the other wolves were not. The change happened almost immediately, messy and more ugly than Stiles had always figured it should be. Lydia grabbed up some of the spare clothing lying on the table, likely where everyone else had gotten their clothing, and went to Jackson’s side.

            “You take it too?” Stiles asked, not bothering to shut the door behind himself. It did not feel right, to close them all into this space together during the daylight hours. “Whatever that is.”

            “I don’t need it,” Cora supplied, though she shook her head. “And it’s just ground dragon scales, wolfsbane, a few herbs, and some animal fat to hold it together.”

            Across the room, Jackson retched and made a pained noise, and Lydia’s eyes widened in alarm. “You _poisoned_ them?”

            “In a sense,” Cora agreed, looking over as well. “It’ll pass,” she called to Jackson, then turned back to Stiles. “That dose won’t kill them, it just gives their bodies something else to process for a while. Better than the alternative, right?”

            Though she smiled, Stiles had no idea what she meant. “What alternative?”

            “Pain,” Derek said thickly from the nearest couch. “A werewolf in enough pain, or one that has been injured badly enough, can’t maintain their shift. That’s one of the things hunters use against us.”

            Guilt flushed under Stiles’ skin to know that he had been one of those hunters only a short while ago, and from the look he exchanged with Lydia, he knew she must be thinking the same. Everyone in camp had known that a badly injured shifter – any sort, not just werewolves – couldn’t turn, which was why they were trained to shoot before the shift if possible, and to keep shooting if not. His eyes caught on Derek’s pale gaze, and he wondered what would have happened if Scott hadn’t been bitten that day. He wondered if he would have shot first and never asked questions.

            The remark about hunters was not directed at him, no matter what it felt like, so he kept his mouth shut on the subject. Instead, he watched Erica’s blonde, furry form clamber onto the couch beside Boyd and practically flop onto his lap as he leaned his head back. When he noticed Laura and Isaac and Peter all already asleep on various pieces of soft furniture, he realized that they had all been up for almost two days straight.

            “Will you still go running tonight?” he asked, keeping his voice down now.

            “Yeah,” Derek said, leaning back as well, his eyes slipping closed. “Tonight and tomorrow. You’ll be safe here.”

            Stiles looked over to Cora, brows up, and she gave a bright, terrifying smile. “He’s right. Nothing gets past my pack.”

 

* * *

 

            His second dragon-riding experience went no better than his first, except that he knew what to expect of it. The bouncing, running start, the whiplash leap into the air, and the jerky up and down of Jossik’s body with every stroke of her powerful wings through the thin mountain air. While it certainly had no set rhythm, he found a rough pattern- as long as he could feel the wind around them, he could move with her instead of sitting astride her back like a sack of potatoes.

            The wolves had spent the last two days running amok through the mountains, howls echoing even back to the glade where Stiles and Lydia sat learning about the dragons so many feared. They were silly creatures, prone to outbursts of incoherent shrieking for no discernible reason, and tended to startle easily for being apex predators larger than horses. Stiles was a quick study, however, and learned that they enjoyed having their eye ridges scratched, enjoyed palms smoothed over their flanks, and more than anything, tiny human fingers digging nails between the pads of their feet.

            At one point, with the sun at its apex and the entire pack crowded into the little cottage sleeping like the dead all around them, Stiles had asked Cora how she had known they were coming. She had arrived with enough dragons to carry all of the wolves, and although there had not been enough dragons to separately carry the extra humans, some of the dragons had been wearing harnesses.

            “Derek sent word that they were coming,” Cora murmured, running her fingers through Erica’s fur in a soothing, repetitive motion. “A month ago, maybe a little longer. The dragons have been watching for them ever since, and when Lyya spotted your group, everyone that was around came along.”

            “But the harnesses?” Stiles prompted.

            Cora grinned lazily. “Haven’t you noticed? Most of them wear one, at least straps, so I can hop on anyone’s back quickly.”

            Stiles had thought back and realized that he had barely noticed the thin, dark straps most of the dragons wore. They looked more like decoration than anything, and there was no saddle to speak of- just straps with a few latches. He shuddered to think that was all that separated a rider from being bucked off the writhing back of a dragon in flight. He had not been looking forward to leaving the glade, knowing it was only accessible by air.

            Before they left, Sare’hein, an absolutely massive, black Northern Ridgeback, put herself between Stiles and the rest of the pack, lying down with an audible _whump_.

            _You run with wolves._

            The voice was loud but not painful, and Stiles realized he had heard it only in his mind, like thinking a thought, like having an idea that was not his own. It brought a certain stillness to his mind, left him feeling like a smooth-surfaced pond that had had a pebble tossed into it. He was not sure if he was supposed to toss another pebble or pull out of the sensation by speaking aloud. In the end, he did neither, and simply nodded his confirmation.

            _They are loyal. You must be loyal as well._

            This, Stiles felt as an order, not a judgment. He swallowed and nodded again, in understanding. She studied him, blue eyes glowing, and for just a moment Stiles could tell why people spoke of dragons as regal, graceful creatures. He understood why people feared them, under the pressure of her solid gaze.

            Then she had drawn herself up to her full height, lifting one claw to the side of her face. She scrabbled off a couple of scales, the small ones only the size of Stiles’ thumbnail, and they clacked together as they hit the dirt. Stiles peered up at her in question, and she gave a little flick of her snout, waiting until he had collected them all for her.

            _Protect them,_ she told him softly and he wasn’t sure which she meant- the wolves or the scales. Maybe both. _You will need them._

            “I don’t know how to use dragon scales,” he said, confused and worried as she turned away from him to head toward the group. They were packing their things to leave, to head through to the eastern side of the mountains.

            _You will._

            Then she was gone, ferret-bouncing across the glade to throw her too-large body into Cora’s arms like a massively overgrown puppy. It had not taken much longer to get everyone sorted out, and by the time they were airborne, four more dragons had joined them. They sounded remarkably like how Stiles remembered elementary school children at recess sounding, alternately clamoring nonsense and venting high shrieks that were a coin toss between expressing delight and being murdered.

            Unlike the ride over, which had taken a second trip to get their belongings, the extra dragons had ensured everyone rode solo, and all of their gear followed behind, split between dragons. Stiles did not bother trying to watch anyone else, and vowed that if he ever had to come back through this way, he would be wearing goggles. Swim goggles, maybe, or work goggles, or maybe a scuba mask- so long as it kept the wind from prying at his eyes.

            His ears popped and his belly gave a lurch as Jossik folded her wings and made a huge drop in altitude. Risking a glance, Stiles pried his eyes open and saw that they were finally nearing the foothills around the edges of the Rockies, where the mountains softened out toward the great stretches of desert and plains on their east side. They’d been in flight since dawn, and it was already growing dark. His eyes closed again as they dropped, taking the descent in little downward jumps, like falling down stairs in slow motion.

            Eventually they hit the ground running, his teeth rattling in his skull until he clamped his jaw firmly shut to keep from biting his own tongue off as Jossik bounded to a halt. All around them the others landed, dragon shaped skipping stones on an open, grassy field. Stiles managed to get himself out of the riding straps by himself this time, untying rope and undoing latches with both hands until he could slither to the ground.

            Jossik held her wing out for him the way she had the first time, but his knees were not as ready to buckle now, so he only smoothed a hand over the edge in thanks. She knocked her head against his back like a playful horse, nearly bowling him over, and then started screaming in what Stiles could only assume was laughter.

            The dragons stayed long enough for Cora to say her goodbyes, romping and rolling around in the tall grasses with boundless energy. She ignored them completely and stood with her forehead pressed solemnly against Peter’s and then Laura’s and finally Derek’s foreheads, speaking quietly. Laura pressed a kiss to her cheek, and Derek pulled her into a fierce hug before telling her to take care of herself. Cora wriggled free and told him to keep his well-wishes for himself- she had dragons, what good was luck?

            And then they were gone, the entire flight flurrying into the evening sky. Stiles watched them go with a tight feeling in his chest, until their silhouettes turned from the random gracelessness of hunting bats to the fluid grace of dragon lore. Stiles was actually a little sad to see them go- the apocalypse seemed less frightening with dragons on his side.

            “Stiles,” Derek said softly from beside him, and Stiles turned to see that most of the group was already on their way across the field, heading for the road. “Time to go.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, turning his back to the mountains and forcing a smile as they began to walk. “Your sister’s pretty cool.”

            After a moment, Derek glanced back, pale eyes flicking up to the sky for a second. He smiled, looking pleased. “She’s something. There are times I wish she’d come with us, though.”

            “And other times?” Stiles asked, keeping pace with him as they hit the pavement of 80 once more.

            Derek smiled again and shook his head. “Sometimes she makes the apocalypse seem like a beginning instead of an end, you know?”

            Stiles smiled back, warmth settling in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly, because he could see that. If a wolf separated from her pack and bound for death as an omega could find salvation in a flight of silly, bobbling dragons, perhaps there was hope for the rest of them after all.

 

* * *

    

            Night always fell faster than expected in the depths of winter, and caught between the mountains and the desert, it got _cold_. They took shelter in a copse of trees just off the road, putting the trunks between themselves and the wind, and circling the cart around to block another side before they settled in to start a fire. Derek split them into pairs, letting Lydia go with Jackson and leaving Stiles behind to watch the camp while they collected wood to burn and scavenged for food nearby.

            Boyd and Erica returned first, one with a raccoon and the other with an armadillo in their jaws, both of which Boyd helped Stiles to skin and skewer. Erica struck out again on her own, although Boyd assured Stiles that it was only to join up with Laura and Peter’s scavenging outing. When she was out of sight, Stiles began coaxing the small fire down into coals for cooking, and then they laid the meat atop it to roast.

            Laura, Peter, and Erica returned several times to bring sticks and other bits of wood to them before settling down, satisfied with the firewood supply and the scent of cooking meat. Twenty minutes later, Derek and Isaac showed up wet and dirty with a plastic grocery bag full of cattail roots and watercress. Laura pulled a pot from the cart, one they had taken with them from the house outside Beacon Hills, and they used some of the water they had taken from the dragon glade to boil the roots while they nibbled on the rest of the food. Jackson and Lydia turned up in the middle, bearing another carcass and a pile of walnuts from someone’s yard.

            When the cattails had softened enough to eat, and the fire had been stoked to keep them warm again, the group split. Laura asked Derek to run with her, and Jackson and Lydia curled up close to the fire for Lydia’s sake. The rest of the wolves wound themselves around and under the cart, pressing their furry bodies together, and closed their eyes for sleep. Stiles offered to take first watch, but Lydia dismissed him, saying she was not tired anyway.

            So Stiles turned in, not sure if he should stay with Jackson and Lydia or try to find a place among the pile of dozing canines. In the end, he sat on the opposite side of Jackson, back against Jackson’s warm shoulders, and pulled his legs up close to his body.

            It did not take long for sleep to claim him, but the next time he opened his eyes was not to daylight, nor to Jackson’s desire to change places. It was to voices, soft and distant, on the other side of the cart. He blinked sleep from his eyes and sat up a little, just enough that Jackson noticed. When Stiles looked, Jackson’s gaze slid off of his and toward the noise, ears flicked forward, and Stiles understood without asking. Jackson was – and probably had been - eavesdropping.

            “We have to leave him.” That was Laura’s voice, Stiles thought, feeling a chill raise bumps on his skin. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain they were talking about him, not Jackson. Maybe because Laura actually seemed to _like_ Jackson most of the time, at least more so than Stiles.

            “There’s nowhere safe to leave him.” That was Derek, soft and soothing, but no more comforting. “There’s nothing out here. The closest human settlement is at least a week to the east. He’d never make it.”

            “Then just _leave_ him,” Laura hissed, and Stiles winced. He had thought they’d gotten along better than _that_ at least. He hadn’t even done anything that he could think of, to merit being left behind now. In fact, he thought they’d been getting along well, between meeting more of their family and getting along with the dragons. “He’s just a human.”

            “He did save my life, however unwelcome it was at the time” Peter pointed out. Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about having Peter defend him so dubiously.

            “We paid our debt to him getting him across the mountains,” Laura argued.

            “We owe him more than that,” Derek said calmly. “We owe him more than escorting him out of safety and ditching him to his fate at the first sign of danger.”

            _Danger_? Stiles mouthed at Jackson in question. Jackson just stared back a moment, then tipped his head and twitched his ears up, as though listening to something. Stiles let his eyes go unfocused as he strained to hear anything in their surroundings that might be dangerous without losing track of the conversation.

            “We don’t owe him the lives of your entire pack,” Laura all but snarled. “Cause that’s gonna be the price you pay letting him stay with us, Derek. When that thing-”

            Far in the distance, something howled, something _unnatural_ , not of this world in any capacity, and Stiles’ eyes focused sharply back toward the mountains. Jackson’s head shifted to look, ears flicking forward again, and Stiles knew this is what he had wanted Stiles to hear. It wasn’t werewolves, and definitely wasn’t dragons. His stomach sank. He had never been unfortunate enough to personally hear the sort of wail splitting the night air currently, but he thought he knew what it was.

            “It’s got his scent,” Laura said, barely audible. “Maybe on the other side of the mountains, maybe when we landed. Doesn’t matter. That thing’s gonna follow him until it catches him, and it doesn’t sleep, and it doesn’t stop.”

            A strange sort of numbness crept over him. Humans knew about grims, although they were rare even in these days. Demons with an animal form, given away by the skull mask growing on their faces and the way their footprints smoldered behind them. The most common ones had a canine shape, though with enough odd lankiness to place them firmly in the uncanny valley of canines. It helped nothing at all that their front paws were actually grotesque facsimiles of human hands, tipped with claws that could rend deeper than flesh and bone.

            Of course he had heard of variations, stories of a flock of raven-like grims somewhere in the northern Rockies, deer-like grims appearing to travelers in the Midwest. A particularly terrifying report from what used to be Canada spoke of a bear-like grim the size of a massive grizzly.

            No matter the form, though, all of the tales held one thing in common- when a grim caught scent of a human soul, it would track it to the ends of the Earth, and when it caught up, it consumed _everything_ it found- victim and companions alike.

            Laura was right. They couldn’t afford to keep him with them.

            “I know,” Derek said softly, pained. “But I am _not_ just leaving him behind to die. _We_ are not leaving him behind to die.”

            Laura snarled, and the other wolves roused, Isaac’s head lifting as he blinked sleepily. When she spoke, it was quiet again, and too final. “You’re an alpha now, Derek. You’ve got a whole pack to look out for, and you’re going to get all of us killed. Over a human who’s going to wind up dead soon no matter what we do. You _have_ to see that.”

            “I do,” Derek told her tiredly. “Look, I’ll… just, give it until morning. I’ll talk to him.”

            Silence fell, and Stiles assumed that whatever else they had to say was purely body language. A moment later, Laura’s sleek wolf form joined the pile of bodies around the cart, settling in with an annoyed wuff. Still numb and barely breathing, Stiles waited for Derek to show himself to discuss what had just transpired. As the minutes ticked by, however, he realized Derek must have taken off instead.

            He settled back against Jackson once more, mind racing in useless circles as he glanced over at his friend to see if he had understood the situation. Jackson just looked back at him, golden-orange eyes glowing, and then shifted position enough to put his massive head in Stiles’ lap.

            Something in Stiles eased at the gesture of solidarity. It wouldn’t help anything, to leave the pack with Jackson and Lydia in tow. More than likely it would result in exactly what Laura was afraid of; if there was a grim on Stiles’ trail, it would kill him when it caught him, and likely Jackson and Lydia as well. He would die anyway, and he would be responsible for all of their deaths if he stayed.

            He wouldn’t let that happen, he decided, between one breath and the next. When the grim got too close, he’d strike out on his own. He wouldn’t take anyone down with him.

            Still, with the eerie wail of the distant grim threading through the night air and the prospect of the wolves disappearing on him without warning, it was nice to know he was not alone yet.

 

* * *

 

            “It took the better part of two days to repair the damage after Scott-“ Allison paused, throat closing on the name. Over two years now, and she still couldn’t say it without feeling like someone had taken a seat on her chest. “After Scott threw that grenade.”

            “Which is why Scott was able to escape the camp, to survive the two days of his full-moon shift?” Chris prompted.

            “Yes,” Allison agreed. Her father knew that, of course. She had already told him most of this, when Jane arrived, and that was half the reason they were doing this in front of the council. He wanted there to be a written record, in front of outsiders, so that no one could dispute what she had said, how much truth she had told. “There were a couple people injured – not badly, but injured – and out of shift rotation for the next few days, and they scheduled extra patrols those two nights. He got himself put on one with Danny and Matt. Just a scouting patrol.”

            “He stayed out the whole first night and when they came back, he wasn’t with them,” she said, trying to remain loud and clear. “They told the gate folks that he’d come back early through a different post. Come back to see me. No one questioned that- no one had any reason to question that.”

            The room was silent then, until her father shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Because you- because you were about to have a child. His child.”

            She caught his gaze and held it, knew exactly what he was thinking, what he wanted her to say. “His human child, yes.” She dropped her gaze for a second, and then dragged it back up to the council. “Lauren is human- I was never bitten and she was conceived before Scott was bitten.”

            “That has never been up for debate,” one of the council members said to placate her. “Lauren McCall is an innocent party in all of this.”

            “Good,” Allison said hotly, ignoring the smile Jane hid behind one hand. It was for her, not against her, she was pretty sure. She settled back in her chair, wrangling her anger down. Lauren was safe, had been safe even when the camp found out about Scott, even now that all of this was happening.

            When she’d sat quietly for almost a full minute, her father cleared his throat again. “So, you told them he had come to see you, while he was out. The camp believed you, even though no one had seen him themselves. Due to the chaos of the events surrounding the departures of Mr. Stilinski and the Whittemores, no one checked.”

            “That is correct,” she affirmed. “He came back after two days, though. Danny and Matt covered for him. They left through separate posts, and they both said they were late to catch up with the other two. The posts were still… still organizing, I guess, but it wasn’t going to last a third day, so they wanted to bring him back.”

            “You weren’t either.” He didn’t say it with any sort of malice, but Allison knew how sore a subject it was for him still. Even now, even with everything else.

            “No, I wasn’t,” she said, not willing to have this argument any more, especially not in front of a crowd of people. “I had Lauren that second night, alone. That was part of why Danny and Matt went looking for Scott. To bring him back to see his daughter, before someone noticed he wasn’t there.”

            “And Scott’s mother covered for him that day as well,” Chris said. “According to the notes she took, your delivery was uneventful, and both you and the father were present.”

            “That’s what it says,” she said. She’d read the notes, had helped write them almost five years ago now. For paper being such a supposedly limited resource in the post-apocalypse world, Beacon Hills Camp was fastidious in its notes and record keeping. “But he wasn’t. He didn’t come back until after the second night.”

            Jane cleared her throat then, and all attention shifted to her. “If you’ll excuse the interruption, we know that a werewolf’s full moon cycle lasts for three days, during which they must almost certainly remain a wolf. Are you suggesting Scott returned home before the end of that cycle, his very first and hardest to control cycle, as a wolf?”

            “He returned,” Allison answered. “But not as a wolf. I’m not sure that I have an explanation for it. Not one that I can prove, but I can tell you what we figured.”

            “Please,” Jane invited with a wave of her hand, clearly more interested in this one fact than the council had yet been in Allison’s entire story.

            Allison shifted uncomfortably, certain that she was about to make a fool of herself for the conclusion she and Scott had come to about that first moon. “We thought that maybe… you know, he turned back the same time Lauren was born. Maybe there was a connection, to his control. She was born, and he had to be human to come back to her. So he changed. He came back.”

            That sent a murmur around the room, everyone looking torn between surprise and discomfort. The idea of a werewolf wanting to see his human child badly enough that he could shift back to human form during the thick of a full moon suggested a lot of things about werewolves- a lot of things which made them more than monsters. A lot of things which, given its history, made Beacon Hills Camp less than human.

            “Shall I go on?” she asked politely, already knowing the answer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got 2 more chapters finished and most of a third, and I will finish this. I want to thank those of your who have come by in the last three years to remind me that you read this and still thought about it, particularly the nonny who came to tell me you have had dreams about it. You were the last straw that got me to put words down, after thinking about it for so long.


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

**Part 2 | Chapter 10**

( _beginning of February_ )

 

* * *

 

_Five days have passed since the grim picked up our trail. Peter says we should go south tomorrow, when we hit Cheyenne. It’s warmer down there, but that means more humans, and eventually the coast. I told him it’s a dead end, and he said everything’s a dead end eventually, that we’ll run out of land no matter where we go. We’re just running from a shadow, and it will catch up at noon._

_We should fight it. Mom raised us to protect our own. There are seven of us, not counting Stiles or Lydia. Seven werewolves against only a single grim._

_Laura says we’ll lose, because you can’t kill death._

_Isaac says that’s true, but sometimes you can cheat it._

_Stiles says he’ll leave when it gets too close to the pack._

_I’m doing my best to keep distance between us._

 

* * *

 

            Red dawn crept over the horizon as the pack put the last of their few belongings back into the cart. Erica was already in the harness, her tail up as she touched noses with Boyd and waited for the rest of them. Stiles wrapped the jerky back in its loose plastic, and stepped around to the back of the cart. He gave it a solid thump that Erica would both hear and feel, and then pushed his shoulder into the back at the same time as she began to pull. The cart gave a creaky groan and began to roll.

            He was certain that she did not actually need the help, as the wolves were more than strong enough to pull the full weight of the cart from a dead stop even uphill, but over the past few days he had gotten used to trying to help however he could. There was precious little he could actually do for them, aside from keep up with their pace. The fact that they were still running from the grim for his sake had not escaped him.

            And it was _his_ sake, he was fairly certain. The group had just sort of silently agreed that Lydia’s immunity to the supernatural extended to being scented by a grim. Though they didn’t often talk about their situation directly, he understood that meant it was after him. He understood that they had decided to help him, despite that it was perhaps not in their best interests.

            Which was, if he was honest, entirely the reason he had left his camp in the first place. This was exactly the behavior that had drawn his attention, the idea that supernatural creatures like werewolves were more than just monsters. They were people. They protected their own and, in this instance, protected those in need who could not protect themselves.

            The humans at the camp… they were not like that. The standing order had been that if anyone was scented by a grim, they left if they wanted to try to survive it, and they got a bullet to the skull if not. It wasn’t much of a choice, and there was never any indication that the camp would have tried to save someone. They fought a lot of battles, but in this one thing they acknowledged the fight as useless.

            A part of Stiles understood why. The grim came for just one human, but once it was in proximity to any other humans around its target, it would consume them as well. Stories had filtered back of whole camps being consumed, found dead without a mark on them, faces twisted in terror. No one was willing to risk it.

            “Why can’t they be killed?” he had asked Derek the night before. “Everyone says they can’t, and no one’s ever said they did, and we’re running instead of facing it, so you must agree.”

            Derek had rolled one shoulder in a shrug, not looking at him in a deliberate way. “They’re not from this phase of reality,” he had said after a few more paces. “Normally they can’t cross over, but when the barrier thins, they can see this side. If there are humans nearby and they can sense the soul, then they… come through to track it. And no, I don’t know how,” he had added when Stiles opened his mouth again.

            Stiles had smiled. Even though it had only been a few days, the wolf was learning him and his habits. He found he didn’t mind in the least. “You didn’t answer the question.”

            “Because I don’t really know,” Derek had said simply. “I’ve only heard one calling once before, but we never met up with it. I just know they scent a soul, cross over, and keep going until the human dies or it catches up to them.”

            “And when they catch up…” Stiles had said quietly.

            Derek hadn’t answered, and Stiles hadn’t expected any different. They all knew what would happen when the grim caught up to him, and they were under no illusions that it would be _if_ instead of _when_.

            “Yeah,” Stiles had agreed after another moment. He had kept pace beside Derek for another hundred yards, letting the highway pass beneath them, rolling fields to either side. Then: “What happened? When you heard one before? You can’t hear a grim unless you’re near its target, so…”

            “That’s true,” Derek had said, glancing over to the other wolves, eyes settling on one of them, though Stiles wasn’t sure which. He had given a little shake of his head. “We didn’t know what it was when we heard it. This… _kid_ comes bolting out of the underbrush, right into the middle of our pack. Going so fast we’d thought it was a deer or a fox or a coyote. Wasn’t. Was a little scrap of a twelve year old. He said there was a demon after him, and that it’d already got his little sister.”

            Stiles’ stomach had dropped.

            _Until the human dies or it catches up to them_.

            “What did you do?” Stiles had whispered, afraid he knew the answer already but needing to hear it from Derek. Perhaps there was a reason Derek had been so insistent that they would not kill humans when they met.

            “It wasn’t up to me,” Derek had said softly. “I wasn’t the alpha then, Peter was. We were going to leave him there, because fighting a demon… well. Nothing good can come from that, you know?”

            “But you didn’t leave him to the grim,” Stiles had concluded for him. There was only one place this could possibly head if they hadn’t left the boy behind. “You killed him.”

            “What?” Derek had asked, looking over in confusion. “No, we didn’t kill him. We turned him. We turned Boyd, and took him with us. He was just a kid, Stiles. We’re not monsters.”

            “Humans are,” Stiles had said, guilt prickling under his skin at his wrong assumption. “Back at camp they would have… they would have kicked me out, you know. Or just killed me.”

            “Sounds like humans.” Despite the assumption Stiles had just made about his people, Derek had said this with no particular malice, like it was just par for the course when humans were involved. Expected.

            Stiles had swallowed down any comment he might have made to the contrary, to try to explain that humans weren’t always bad. These people had learned not to trust humans, and with good reason. After traveling with the wolves, seeing the way they kept track of and protected one another – even the new parts of the pack, even Jackson and Lydia and Stiles – Stiles was beginning to doubt _he_ trusted humans either.

            Then, his brain had caught up to the conversation, and he had perked a little. “Could you turn me?” he had asked, not really appreciating how hopeful he sounded. As much as he had not wanted to give up his humanity, if there was a way to keep them all safe _and_ survive the experience, he would have taken it. “Like you did to Boyd?”

            “I wish I could,” Derek had told him, sounding every bit like he had already thought of and dismissed the idea. His eyes had ticked over to Peter’s pitch form off to their right. “You wouldn’t survive the bite.”

            “You can tell?” Stiles had asked, though he was not particularly surprised. If it had been a viable solution, he was sure that Derek would have brought it up before they set off to run to the ends of the Earth. “How? You couldn’t tell for Scott, or for Jackson.”

            Derek’s expression had hardened into a glare at Peter, but after a moment it had softened as he looked back to Stiles, leaving Stiles to wonder what exactly had gone down between Peter and Derek. “Not all humans are the same, and I guess alphas can tell the difference. Some of you, like Erica and Isaac, the bite won’t kill them. Some, like Boyd and Scott and Jackson, it could go either way. But some people… people like you… there’s no chance. You wouldn’t survive it.”

            “No chance at all? You’re sure?” Stiles had asked, and Derek had shaken his head. Stiles had tried not to let the pain of lost hope show on his face.

            “Peter confirmed it, from when he met you in Beacon Hills,” Derek had said gently. “I did ask, in case I was wrong but...” He had trailed off, looking as despondent as Stiles felt. When he had spoken again, his voice was soft, his tone an apology all on its own. “I would have offered at the start, if I could have.”

            “Thank you, anyway,” Stiles had said, brushing off the raw feeling before it could make him cry. “For, y’know, trying to help me. Then, and now.”

            Derek had nodded, and Stiles had let it drop so they could walk in peace.

            Now the pack was spread out, with Jackson and Boyd scouting up ahead of them almost out of sight. Derek padded next to Erica, who was pulling the cart again, and Lydia walked between them, talking quietly enough that although Stiles could hear her, he couldn’t distinguish words.

            Stiles brought up the rear with Isaac, who padded so close to him that Stiles could practically feel the warmth radiating from his fur if he focused. Peter and Laura had taken off a couple of hours ago, and Laura had returned alone without saying anything, but as Derek didn’t seem alarmed, Stiles chose to not say anything either. She’d been ranging off to their right, sometimes on level with Derek, sometimes on level with Stiles. He couldn’t tell why she varied her position, but watching her to determine what she was doing told him something else.

            She was _tired_.

            He could see it in the flag of her tail and the weary bob of her head, the way some of her footsteps scraped her nails over the pavement instead of lifting them off. As soon as he noticed it in her, he began to watch the others, and realized that she was not alone. He had spent the better part of the last week looking over his shoulder, or listening to the eerie wail closing in on them, watching out into the forest for additional dangers. Apparently, not all the danger came from without.

            Isaac leaned into his thigh, a gesture of comfort he had seen the wolves engage in on numerous occasions, and Stiles found himself startled to be on the receiving end. When he glanced down at Isaac, the wolf didn’t look back, golden gaze locked steadily ahead of them. The same droop in Laura’s posture was evident in Isaac’s, and Stiles sighed.

            Tentatively, he buried his fingers in Isaac’s coarse, tan fur, returning the sentiment of support gratefully. Isaac’s fur felt dusty, almost grimy, and Stiles realized he couldn’t remember seeing him out of wolf form in over a day.

            “Thank you,” Stiles said, before he could think too much about it. Isaac flicked an ear at him, and Stiles tried again. “I mean, for the extra time.” He swallowed down his nerves at saying anything at all. “I know it’s not easy. I know this is… I just want to say thank you.”

            He glanced up to see Laura had stopped, turned halfway back to him at his words. Erica had slowed as well, but when Derek didn’t stop, she pulled forward to keep pace. Stiles met Laura’s amber gaze, walking forward as steadily as ever. She watched as they approached.

            “I know that we can’t keep this up forever,” he said, quietly but firmly. “And I… I don’t want any of you to die for me. You’re tired now, and when it gets to be too much, or if that thing gets too close, I’ll leave.”

            There. He’d said it. He’d been thinking about it for days, how to say he wouldn’t endanger them after they had spent so much time and energy protecting him. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy, but it was. It was, because he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he wanted to protect them, too.

            Ahead of them, if Derek or Erica had heard, neither gave indication. Isaac pressed closer to Stiles as they passed Laura, whose ears pressed flat to her skull as she stared at him. He could only guess what she was thinking, and when he turned back to see if she would follow, she was gone.

 

* * *

 

            “It’s catching up again,” Stiles said, taking a seat beside Derek and passing him a warm bowl of stew. He was _sore_ , in ways he hadn’t been sore since long before he and his father had reached Beacon Hills Camp. Behind them, the broken teeth of Cheyenne city bit into the ocean of night sky above them.

            Derek took the bowl and lifted it to his lips without comment. Stiles had not really expected a response. Of anyone, he and Derek were the two most aware of the proximity of the grim on Stiles’ trail. It was closer now that they had taken time to scavenge in Cheyenne, bringing back dry goods and medical supplies, and some useful cooking gear. Stiles had been able to trade his wooden board for a heavy, metal bat and someone had located two intact backpacks to keep bug-out gear in if they had to abandon the cart.

            They had also found bodies.

            Or at least, what remained of bodies after however many years they had lain exposed to the elements. Whatever had happened in Cheyenne, it had spared no one, and the boneyard at its borders seemed to keep many away. Most of the residences were untouched, or only barely searched. If they had not been on the run for their lives, it might have been a good place to hole up in for a while.

            That is, Stiles thought, if whatever had happened was not still happening.

            At the memory, Stiles dared to lean a little closer to the warmth of the body next to him for comfort, and Derek took the cue automatically, pressing back. “We’ll put some distance between us tomorrow,” Derek murmured, heavy and low, though he probably meant distance from the grim, not the dead city. There was another long pause between them, and then Derek added: “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s not your fault,” Stiles assured him, staring down at his own untouched bowl.

            He knew it was not Derek’s fault, was not anyone’s fault that he was out here, playing tag with death. Sure, he had hoped to have more _time_ , to have a few more adventures, learn a few more things, meet a few more people, but at least if he had to die, it was out in the world instead of closed behind walls.

            A little huff of laughter escaped him and he stirred his stew with one finger. “I mean, I’d be dead any way this went, right? From the second I met you. It never mattered if I pulled that trigger or not, I wouldn’t have let Scott die.”

            “How do you know he didn’t?” Derek asked. It sounded sad, but genuine. Maybe he figured Scott for dead, but Stiles knew that could not be. “Die, I mean.”

            “He’s not dead,” he said firmly. “He’s… y’know, he’s _Scott_. He’s got himself, and Allison, and their little kid. Danny, and Matt, and he’ll… he’ll be okay.”

            “He’s living in Gerard Argent’s back pocket,” Derek reminded him softly. “There’s no worse place for a werewolf, especially a new one. Gerard killed his own son, after he was bitten. He won’t spare your friend if he finds him.”

            “No,” Stiles admitted. “But, like you said, he’ll have to find Scott first. He’ll have to realize there’s something _to_ be found, after what we pulled.”

            Derek was quiet for another few moments, sipping at his stew and picking out small chunks of roasted hare. “I’m still sorry,” Derek admitted gently a while later, when their stew was gone and their earlier conversation almost faded into the night. “I wouldn’t have had it end this way. I don’t… want you dead.”

            Stiles chanced a glance as Derek clambered to his feet to return his bowl to the others, but whatever had prompted the admission left no trace in his expression. He supposed it did not really matter.

            In the distance, the eerie wail of the grim pierced the chill night air.

 

* * *

 

            Laura dropped back beside the cart, the claws of her beta shift hands hitting the pavement with audible clicks. Although most of the time the pack traveled as full wolves, they now would sometimes take their beta shift instead, so they could talk. Stiles took it as a gesture of good faith, a sign that they wanted to include him and Lydia in the dialogue even if it was only one side of it. This time, Stiles knew that she meant to address their immediate plans, given their current surroundings.

            Ahead of them an inferno raged, lighting up the night sky with oranges and reds. Derek, still hitched to the cart in his full wolf form, had stalled out to take it in as soon as they had rounded the bend in the highway. The others milled in the road nervously, low sounds of concern trading back and forth among them. Stiles watched from atop the cart, where the wolves had stashed both him and Lydia to try to put some additional distance between the pack and the grim.

            Distance they lost the longer they stood watching North Platte burn.

            “What do you want to do?” Laura asked. “Highway runs right through that mess.”

            Derek looked over, and Laura paid rapt attention to whatever he told her. Then she snorted, turning to look toward where the pack still circled, awaiting a direction.

            “Even you have to know we don’t have that kind of lead anymore. The grim will go straight through the city, even if it’s on fire,” she said evenly. “And it’s close enough now that it’ll catch us on the other side if we go around.”

            Derek’s lips peeled back from his teeth and although she rolled her eyes, she ducked her head.

            “I know we can’t go through,” she snapped back. “Maybe just change direction entirely. Stop following 80.”

            At that, Derek looked away, toward the pack again, and then back over his shoulder to where they had come from. He heaved a sigh through his long snout, and shook himself. Pressing forward, he yanked the cart back into motion, head turned to the side as Laura followed to his left.

            After a couple of seconds, she nodded and looked up to Stiles and Lydia. “We’re going to go until we reach the fire, and then figure which direction looks better.”

            “The grim will still cut a corner,” Stiles called down to her over the sound of the cart wheels. The grim had always taken the path which lead directly to Stiles- every turn the pack took cut distance between them.

            “I know,” she said, and Stiles probably imagined the accusation but that did not make it sting less.

            “It’s catching up,” Lydia said softly from against his side. She had huddled close for warmth, and Stiles couldn’t blame her- February was no time to be taking a trip across the country, even with the extra blankets they had picked up scavenging. “We’re just buying time.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, leaning against her a little more, arm over her shoulders. He glanced down to Derek, whose ears laid flat against his skull as he ran, and wondered if the wolf had heard. He didn’t offer any other consolation. There wasn’t any to give.

            They were running out of time.

 

* * *

 

            Daylight softened the glow of the city behind them, the burning no more reduced than when they had first seen it on the horizon. They had gotten close enough to tell that it was no natural disaster, no accident; something supernatural kept the city burning in a constant, raging state. They had beat a hasty retreat northward when Lydia pointed out that there was _something_ inside the city, massive and _moving_ through the flames, seething like a whale beneath waves, heading south.

            “Maybe the grim won’t go straight through after all,” Isaac said cheerfully.

            It didn’t buy them a lot of hope, but it was something.

            Not enough, Stiles thought as he walked alongside the pack. They had been walking for most of the day, having snagged a couple hours of sleep after getting around the city. They had gone north east, picking up highway 83 after a few hours. Now they were taking it northward to find something that would head east toward Omaha again. Derek walked evenly at his side in human form for once, and it seemed to Stiles that even the indomitable wolves looked ready to throw in the towel.

            He swallowed, glancing back over his shoulder. The grim wasn’t in sight, not yet, but he could feel it burning at the back of his consciousness. A different sort of weight brushed his senses, and he turned to find Derek watching him with soft, pale eyes. Stiles forced a smile and dropped his gaze back to the pavement.

            “Do you believe in souls?” he asked Derek quietly. He knew the other wolves would hear him, but he had learned over the past two weeks that certain voice pitches and tones would be ignored as private matters.

            Derek dropped his gaze as well and did not answer immediately. Just when Stiles began to suspect he wouldn’t, Derek said: “There’s something. Humans have something that the grims track- something that we don’t. Maybe it’s a soul.”

            Stiles’ brow furrowed. “You don’t think you have a soul?”

            “I don’t know,” Derek said honestly. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s just a different kind. But they’re supposed to eat souls, and they only hunt humans.”

            Stiles gave a hum of acknowledgement. He could see that, having different sorts of souls to fit different sorts of species. Perhaps grims only liked the taste of human souls. Perhaps they only ate the souls of supernatural creatures when no one was watching. His belly twisted as he wondered what it would feel like.

            “Do you think it will hurt?”

            He hadn’t meant to ask the question but now that it was out there, he made no move to reclaim it.

            “I mean, it’s a soul, right?” he forged on when Derek remained silent. “What does that even feel like? Can it even feel anything?”

            “Yes,” Derek answered. “If they exist, if we have souls, they feel.”

            Stiles looked over, throat tight, and then nodded his acceptance. “Yeah, that’s… I kind of figured that will be the case. I just…” He swallowed, sick and scared and anxious. He’d been close to death plenty before, but never with so much time to think about it coming for him.

            He didn’t want to die. Not like that, not torn apart from the inside. Not consumed while he was still aware to feel it. The thought left him shaking.

            Carefully, with as much control as he could muster, he gathered the strands of his courage together and held tight. “Um, Derek, I- I gotta ask you something, and I get it if you say no, I think I would, too, but um…” He let out a stressed sigh, rubbing one hand over his hair before clearing his throat, for all the good it did. “I don’t want to die alone,” he got out in a rush.

            “You don’t have to leave us,” Derek told him, sounding for all the world like he was begging Stiles to stay. “We’ll keep running.”

            Stiles blew out a sound of frustration and shook his head, unable to meet Derek’s eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” he tried again. “You guys can’t keep running forever, you’re already getting tired, we’ve been running ourselves ragged for weeks now. I don’t want- I just thought that… you know. When it gets too close, maybe you could just… end it?”

            He winced even as he said the words, closing his eyes at the brashness of speaking them aloud. He’d been thinking them since before they’d seen the fire, though he couldn’t have articulated it until now. As much as he hated to even ask, to put that burden on the pack, on any one of them, the alternative sent his mind howling into the void. Maybe the camp had had the right of it after all- at least if one of the wolves killed him, it would be quick. Maybe not painless, maybe not clean, but quick.

            He wondered when that had become the lowest acceptable bar.

            When he opened his eyes, Derek had drawn to a stop and was just staring at him like Stiles had hit him in the gut with his bat. He took a breath and let it out like he couldn’t keep it in, then glanced down the road to where the rest of the pack had stopped dead in its tracks.

            “You want me to kill you?” he said, clipped and breathless.

            Stiles swallowed his guilt over the request. “I don’t _want_ you to,” he said, sounding far more even-keeled than he felt. “I just think that… it would be better. For me, and for all of you, too. I mean, it’s gonna happen right? That thing’s gonna catch up eventually, and- hey! Derek!”

            He stumbled after Derek, who had turned around in the middle of Stiles’s speech and began to walk back toward the grim, stripping out of his dusty shirt as he walked. Stiles’ shout brought the rest of the pack heading back as well, to see what was the matter. He caught up to Derek when he paused to slither out of his pants.

            “Derek,” Stiles said, like an argument all on its own. “Buddy, you’re goin’ the wrong way.”

            “What’s going on?” Laura asked as she reached them, Hale-pale eyes flickering between them as Derek stopped.

            “I’m done running,” Derek said, folding his clothing and dropping it to the road at his feet. Laura grabbed his shoulder before he could transform.

            Stiles’ stomach sank. Maybe this was it. Maybe he would just get it over with right here and now, since Stiles had finally suggested it. His throat closed up, his ears ringing.

            “You want to fight it,” Laura breathed. “We can’t.”

            “I’m not asking you to,” Derek said, turning to look at her. “Take the others and go east. Straight east from here, don’t risk going near the hunters at the crossroads up the road- we’re already too close. If you go east now, you’ll hit Omaha eventually. Deucalion’s pack runs that stretch, and he used to know mom. He’ll help you.”

            “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Erica said from where she trailed to a stop beside Laura. “You want to go down, you’ve gotta take the rest of your pack with you.”

            “Well, if you leave quickly enough, you won’t be my pack. You’ll be Laura’s,” Derek told her, so patient it bordered on patronizing.

            “Guys!” Stiles protested, looking between them all in horror, regretting his decision to say anything. “Just- okay. I’m gonna go. I’ll head west to draw it away from you, and-“

            “You’re not going anywhere,” Derek said firmly, teeth baring as he spoke. “And if you try, I’ll follow you, and they’ll follow me.”

            “Why are you doing this?” Stiles hissed, stepping closer, searching Derek’s eyes. This was the opposite of what he wanted. The whole point was to ensure the pack survived, even if he wasn’t alive to see it anymore.

            Derek’s expression did something Stiles could not parse before he gave a little shake of his head. “Because you came with us,” he said softly. “Of all the humans who’ve survived to now, you’re the first one I’ve ever met who wants to learn better. I want to protect that. If I just-“ He stopped abruptly, a harsh breath punching out of him, and for a moment Stiles thought Derek was going to be sick.

            Laura stepped up to Derek’s side, laying one hand on his bare shoulder, catching his attention. “First pack rule,” she said, mustering a genuine smile that Derek returned.

            “We’re stronger together,” Erica recited, her fingertips brushing through the wiry fur of Boyd and Isaac’s backs on each side of her. “Guess that means you too, pinkie.”

            Stiles shot her a look at the name, but turned back to Derek just as quickly. Derek just stared back at him and Stiles felt the weight of the thousands of things that could be said between them in that gaze. He couldn’t find the words to articulate any of it.

            “Charming,” Peter said, breaking the mood with an eye roll. “I suppose there are worse ways to die. The fact that I cannot think of even one must be a failure of my imagination.”

            At that moment, Jackson pulled the cart to a stop beside Peter, and Lydia clambered out of it, looking around at them. Jackson had to have heard the conversation, but Lydia had been too far. “What’s going on? Why did we stop?”

            Derek curled a small, tight smile. “We’re going to need your help,” he said. “We’ve decided to stop running, and take a stand. Kill this thing before it kills us.”

            Lydia straightened, flicking Stiles an uncertain glance, but looking away again before he had time to react. “Sure, I’m in,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

           

* * *

 

            As it turned out, the plan involved waiting long enough that Stiles fell asleep with his back to one of the cart wheels, Lydia leaning against his shoulder and Jackson and Isaac curled protectively around them.

            It was nearly dawn by the time he struggled into wakefulness, exhaustion still dragging at his eyes. Down the road a little ways, Derek still sat upright, in full wolf form, with Laura flopped down at his side. The black of their fur blended together until Stiles had difficulty telling where one ended and the other began. He could just barely see the gold of Laura’s eyes, giving away that she was still awake.

            “Anything?” he murmured under his breath, knowing Derek would hear him anyway.

            Derek looked over, his eyes glowing red in the pre-dawn dark. He shook his head and remained where he was, turning back to the empty road. They had put a lot of distance between themselves and the grim, but the hellish wail had grown closer through the night. Close enough, Stiles realized, that he could hear the nonsensical gibbering echoing around the area.

            “It’s close,” Stiles said, at the same time as Derek stood, fur bristling, and the pack lurched to attention on invisible puppet strings.

            In the distance, at the very edge of Stiles’ vision, a faint glow drifted along the pavement. It moved with an eerie sort of steadiness, slow but never faltering, never wavering. Around him the wolves bristled, waiting, watching as the grim approached, pitch form resolving the higher the sun climbed over the edge of the horizon.

            It was a lanky creature, flat-black skin stretched taut over bones and fire licking at its feet. The burning footprints it left behind faded without a trace, not even scorches to mark its passing. Where its eyes should have been were odd-shaped lumps filling up the sockets of its exposed skull, glowing the same red as the fire at its paws.

            The worst, though, was when the gibbering escalated into a high, crazed cackle, shattering over itself, the wail that had haunted them for weeks piercing through the noise without stopping it. All of the hair on Stiles’ body stood on end, skin crawling with the weight of the sound.

            Derek bounded forward first, a snarl tearing out of his throat, a deep and angry reminder of the ever-lurking monster beneath the surface. The rest of the pack leapt with him, just as loud, just as terrifying- even Jackson, newly turned, looked every bit the deadly killer. Stiles stayed back by the cart, out of their way, and watched the distance close.

            The pack split to circle around the grim as Derek sidestepped and threw his considerable weight shoulder-first into the grim, jaws-

            -snapping closed on air, as Derek stumbled hard enough to end up snout-first on the ground, much to the surprise of the rest of the wolves. They scrambled to give him space as he rolled back to his feet and came full-force at the grim again.

            Nothing.

            Derek passed through the creature completely.

            _They’re not from this phase of reality_.

            “Oh no,” he breathed out, fingers tightening on his bat. That’s why they couldn’t be killed. That’s why no one survived. “It didn’t come through!” he shouted.

            Derek shot him a look that, even on the face of a full-shift werewolf, said _no shit, Sherlock_. Jackson wheeled around as the grim passed them entirely, dead sockets fixed on Stiles as it walked without changing its pace. Jackson made an attempt to lock his jaws on its hind leg, but his teeth snapped shut on empty space. The snarl he unleashed was barely audible over the gibbering, crackling wailing suffusing the air.

            He was going to die. Right here, he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. The wolves weaved in and out of the grim’s form, all teeth and upset, but none of them were able to touch it at all.

            Twenty yards.

            Behind the grim, Derek had stalled out, and Stiles looked up to meet his eyes.

            Fifteen yards.

            He was going to die.

            Ten yards.

            He should have said goodbye.

            Five yards.

            He raised his bat, knowing it was useless and the air went dead silent so quickly it almost hurt, and then an earsplitting shriek pierced the air. Beside him, Lydia screamed in surprise, covering her mouth with one hand even as she did so.

            Laura’s teeth sunk into the grim’s flank, yanking it off kilter.

            It was hard to tell who was more shocked, the wolves or the grim, and for just a split second time slowed down as they all hesitated.

            Then Laura jerked her head back, dragging the grim half a step, and it whirled on her, clawed fingers stretching to grasp as its huge jaws closed on her neck. It didn’t get time to twist or pull- Derek set upon it from the other side, fangs gnashing into blackened skin. Stiles scrambled to the side as the pack set upon the now-corporeal grim, blood flying from all parties in the whirlwind of motion, the air full of shrieks and snarls.

            Almost as quickly as it started, it stopped. Peter stood over the thing, its jugular hanging loosely from his jaws before he spat it out. Already the grim’s body was starting to deteriorate, the stretched skin putrefying before their eyes, the dripping liquid ignited by the fire that burned around its paws. Stiles doubted there would be anything left in minutes at the rate it was going.

            A step away from the body, Isaac swayed on his feet and collapsed, a wound oozing on his shoulder, claw marks torn over his snout. Laura was on the ground already, bloody but breathing, her fur smoking from the grim’s blood and venom. Erica staggered away from the corpse with Boyd leaning into her side for support; blood coated her fur, but Stiles could see no specific injury through her thick, blonde pelt. Jackson limped over to them but shied away from letting Lydia touch the blood on his fur.

            Derek and Peter were the only two to remain, ribs heaving with every sucked in breath as they stared at one another. Peter bared fangs covered in green-black ichor at Derek, who bared his right back, and then savagely seized the grim’s neck in his powerful jaws. Peter bent forward again and put his long jaws right next to Derek’s, over the grim’s skull.

            There was a moment’s pause where Stiles got to wonder what they planned to do before Peter twisted and Derek yanked, and the grim’s skull separated from its body entirely. Lydia flinched, and Stiles covered his mouth at the horrific sound it made.

            Peter tossed the skull away from the body with a dull, sticky clatter against the pavement.

            Then he began to change, fur melting into skin as he threw his weight back to stand two-legged and naked as the day he was born. Stiles turned his attention to Derek, who was just standing there over the corpse, letting the flame lick at his paws. It must not burn hot, Stiles thought, feeling weirdly detached.

            He was alive.

            “Why did you take its head off?” Lydia asked from beside him, her hands hovering over Jackson’s fur. He was flagging, his flanks sagging like he just wanted to lie down for a while.

            “So it doesn’t come back,” Peter said as he stepped over to the wagon to grab one of the three towels they had salvaged at Cheyenne. Black fog curled off his skin where blood lay upon it, healing and burning and healing. “Like bisecting a werewolf- they can’t heal through it. If we left it, the fire would burn up to the venom in those eye sockets, and it would revive.”

            “How do you know that?” Lydia asked.

            Peter turned to look over his shoulder at her, a strange glint in his eye. “Stories,” he said vaguely. “The same kind that tell me you’re a _banshee_. That was quite a scream, young lady.”

            Stiles’ eyes widened at the accusation, but so did Lydia’s, and he quickly surmised that she hadn’t been keeping that information from them- she hadn’t known. He looked back to where Derek was standing, still in the flame, and decided Derek had not known either.

            “I’m not-“ Lydia began.

            “Doesn’t matter,” Peter interrupted. “We’d be dead otherwise, we might be dead anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

            “What do you mean dead anyway?” Stiles said hotly. They had survived the fight and werewolves had superior healing. Already the blood on Peter’s skin was almost burned away into nothing, cleaning away as it ate at him. It would be the same for the others, he was pretty sure.

            “Laura’s been bit, and Isaac, and Jackson,” Peter said, wiping at his arms with the towel, which began to smoke as well. “Derek?” There was a pause, and then Derek stepped over the smoldering scorch mark on the pavement that had been the grim only moments ago. As soon as Derek took a step, Stiles saw the limp, saw the bloodied footprint he left behind. “Derek, too. That venom’s not just for coming back to life.”

            “You can’t heal through it?” Lydia asked, voice trembling as she drew closer to Jackson.

            Peter hesitated, then looked over his shoulder at the rest of his pack, weakened and still smoking faintly as their bodies burned off the acid-like blood. “I don’t know,” he admitted, scrubbing finally at his face with the towel. “I know it does something to humans, something it can’t do to us, but I don’t know what it does to us instead. There’s a good chance our healing will keep us alive a while yet, but it’s… unlikely to be pleasant.”

            “Whatever it does hurts like hell,” came Isaac’s voice from just beyond Laura. He was lying on his back, and even from this distance Stiles could see the crescent of bite marks over his entire shoulder.

            “Makes everything burn inside,” Laura slurred from the middle of the road, human as well. Stiles realized that the pain must be forcing them back out of shift. “S’not healing. Not gonna heal.”

            “Wish we’d gotten a little closer to those hunters,” Erica lamented. “They’d make it quick.”

            Hunters…

            The word sparked in Stiles’ mind as soon as she said it, and he grasped at it desperately.

            _Don’t risk going near the hunters at the crossroads._

            They were close. Derek had said they were close to hunters, which meant they were close to _something_ stable and permanent enough that it might still be there since the last time the pack had been through. _Help_ might still be there. If hunters had established a meeting place, there was a good chance that one of them knew how to deal with grim venom. There was a chance, however slim, that one of them would help.

            “The skull,” he said, scrambling to his feet with a sudden desperation. “Peter, where is the skull? Where did you-“

            “There,” Lydia said, pointing at the same time as Peter.

            Stiles spotted where it had fallen, the white of the bone glimmering with an ethereal quality below the tacky ichor coating it. He plucked the already-ruined towel from Peter’s loose grasp. As soon as he was close enough, he wrapped the towel carefully around the skull and lifted, not expecting the bone to be so lightweight. Clutching it to his chest, he turned to catch Lydia’s wide eyes.

            “I have an idea,” he said breathlessly.

            “Stiles,” she argued, and he had missed the moment the light had dawned in her eyes, because they only reflected judgment now.

            “Derek said we were close,” he told her. “I can do this. Just- watch them, okay? Don’t let them die.”

            “They won’t help werewolves,” she reminded him.

            “I’m still human,” he said, and then shifted his attention to Boyd, who looked the most stable. “Boyd, I need your help. I need you to follow me, but stay out of sight until I call.”

            Boyd heaved himself to his feet, giving Erica’s cheek a soft lick, and then moved to stand beside Stiles with a questioning tip of his head. When no one was dying, Stiles would have to remember to be excited about how much he had learned about reading wolfish expressions.

            With one final glance to Lydia, Stiles set off down the road, heading north against Derek’s earlier express orders. Maybe the werewolves couldn’t approach an encampment of hunters and survive to tell the tale, but Stiles was betting he could. Especially with the artifact in his hands and the wolf treading swiftly at his heel.

 

* * *

 

            Looking back, Stiles could never really pinpoint the moment Boyd left his side, disappearing from the road like a phantom. He remembered his feet pounding on the pavement, remembered the shape of the roadhouse in the distance, and the urgency like a vice on his chest. One moment Boyd ran beside him and the next he was alone on the empty road, with no warning.

            Almost as soon as he noticed Boyd’s absence, a voice clattered out from nowhere Stiles could discern, echoing among the cars that had been cleared from the middle of the road for easy passage. “Hold it! If you value your life you just stop right there, kiddo.”

            Stiles skidded to a stop and held still for a moment before calling out, “I’m not armed!” Carefully, he shifted the massive skull in his hands to just one hand, holding his other into the air as proof of his words. They would either believe him or they wouldn’t, but they had to know as well as he did that carrying a weapon of any kind into the midst of a bunch of hunters only asked for trouble.

            “Where’re you headed, lad?” asked a second voice, this one thickly accented.

            “I heard there was a crossroads nearby, with hunters,” Stiles shouted, in what he thought was the correct direction. The second voice did not echo around as much, but it still sounded like it came from all directions at once. “I need help.”

            “What kind of help?” That was the first voice again, and Stiles thought she sounded a lot less friendly. She was definitely the one that Stiles was going to have to work to impress. “And what’s that in your hands?”

            Stiles lofted the skull into the air enough that it would be visible from any angle, even still wrapped in the towel. “It’s the skull of a wolf form grim we just killed.”

            “Bullshit,” came the response almost immediately. “Grim’s can’t be killed. Everyone knows that. If you’re gonna lie-“

            “I know they can’t, usually,” Stiles said loudly, talking over her because he really did not want to die. “But I can prove my friends killed it. We managed to… get it to take a real corporeal form long enough to kill it. But they’re hurt now. Four of them were envenomed. We need your help.”

            Silence stretched out for full minutes, until Stiles thought maybe they had just left him there to do what he pleased. He took a step toward the crossroads roadhouse to test the theory, and was proved almost instantly wrong.

            “One more step and you’ll be dancing,” threatened the first voice, which told Stiles that they more than likely had guns trained on him. “Set it down, and back away, kid.”

            “Stiles,” he said as he bent to place the skull on the cement. He took ten steps backward, giving them plenty of space to come look without feeling threatened. Almost as an afterthought, he raised his hands to show they were empty now, and waited.

            Another few minutes passed in silence, and then movement from the far side of an overturned car caught his eye. A young woman stepped into view, a rifle in her hands, and Stiles cast a glance beyond her to try to spot her companion. It unnerved him to find that there was no sign of anyone else.

            “Stiles?” the girl asked skeptically as she made her way over to the skull.

            “It’s my name. And I’m not a kid,” he said evenly. He looked young, he’d give her that much, and she was probably a little older than him, but not by much. Her pretty blonde hair was tied back from a very young face.

            She studied him for a minute, and then knelt next to the packaged skull. “Move at all and Patrick will make sure you’re one more smear on the pavement, Stiles,” she informed him curtly, and then lowered her firearm to examine his trophy.

            It did not take long for her to unwrap and overturn the bone piece, looking at the twin incisors with their jagged edges. The venom cavities ran up into the eye sockets to take the place of its eyes, and as far as Stiles knew, there was only one creature whose anatomy did that. She could not mistake what it was, especially given the strange sheen of the bone itself, shimmery and glowing faintly.

            Finally, she stood. Stiles swallowed, knowing that whatever verdict she reached would determine whether or not he could save the pack. Her deep-brown eyes turned up to him, taking him in again, and then she laid her rifle on the ground and beckoned him over with one hand, her other reaching for the knife at her belt. Something within him relaxed at the show of tentative trust, and he moved closer, extending his arm to her with his fist closed.

            The bite of the silver knife was cold, but brief, as she slid it over the back of his forearm, leaving a clean, shallow line of red in its wake. But it didn’t burn, didn’t blister or redden, and the girl nodded her satisfaction of the result. A high, sharp whistle later, her companion appeared two cars from where she had, his weapon pointed down as well.

            “Name’s Jo,” she said, extending her hand to shake, which Stiles took gratefully. “Jo Harvelle. This is Patrick Connelly.” She stooped to grab up her rifle, but kept it aimed at the ground. “A grim, eh? And you said your friends killed it for you? Those’re some friends.”

            He knew exactly what she was implying, and there were about a million reasons to hide the truth from them, but none of them worked out well in the end. If he told them the situation here, he would not have to reveal the location of the wounded pack if they reacted poorly. If he waited, if they arrived and discovered he had misled them, they would undoubtedly get aggressive.

            “They’re wolves,” he said quietly. “Werewolves.”

            Jo raised an eyebrow and Patrick’s grip on his gun tightened, though to his credit he didn’t raise it. Neither of them did. “You’re human,” Jo said. “Or good at pretending.”

            “I really am human,” Stiles reassured her firmly. “But my friends are… different than you think. They listen to me, and they don’t hurt humans. They risked their lives to save mine, and the lives of my other human friends. Aren’t those the kind of people you want to keep in the world these days?”

            Patrick shifted uneasily as Jo stared at Stiles with an intense kind of focus, like she could see right past his skin and into his soul. He didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. He needed their help, if they could give it, and hunters respected bravery and determination. At least, all the ones he had ever met had.

            “Sorry, Stiles,” she said at last. “I don’t think anyone’s keen on walking into a trap anymore. I’ve never met a werewolf I could trust, and I don’t think I want to meet a whole pack of them on a stranger’s say-so.”

            “What if I could prove it?” he said, desperation raising his voice a little. “What if I could prove they listen to me. That you can trust them…”

            “How?” Patrick said finally, glancing back along the road like he expected the pack to just emerge from thin air.

            Well, he wasn’t _entirely_ wrong.

            “Boyd, you can come out,” he said evenly, not raising his voice any further.

            At first, nothing happened, and Stiles worried that he’d been _actually_ abandoned, but then a dark movement to their left caught everyone’s eye. Boyd stepped hesitantly into view, pausing at the edge of the road, his beta-gold eyes trained on Jo and Patrick, who both raised their weapons but didn’t shoot.

            Stiles held out his hand at exactly the correct height for Boyd’s shoulders, just like he had said he would. “Come here,” he said firmly. “And don’t shoot,” he added toward the hunters.

            Jo spared him an angry glance at the order, but she didn’t shoot when Boyd crossed the space between them and pushed under Stiles’ hand to stand at his hip, broad body leaning against his leg. Stiles curled his fingers into the coarse hair over Boyd’s shoulders and looked steadily at Jo, doing his best to exude all the confidence he didn’t feel. He was just glad Boyd had agreed to go along with his plan.

            “How’d you do that?” Jo asked, a little breathlessly. Stiles knew the feeling.

            “I told you, we’re friends,” he said quietly. “They saved my friend’s life a while back, and I’ve been traveling with them ever since. I wanted to learn more about supers that don’t want to hurt humans.”

            “They all want to hurt us,” Patrick said, but it didn’t sound like he believed his own words anymore.

            “This one doesn’t,” Stiles said, brushing his fingers through Boyd’s fur. “The others don’t either, and there are others like them if you know how to look. I met a werewolf that flew with dragons. I rode a dragon from Cali-side of the Sierras to this side of the Rockies.” He swallowed, keeping his eyes on Jo’s, willing her to understand that this was _important_. “Don’t you think it’s at least worth giving a chance? Friendly supers could change a lot of things.”

            Jo’s eyes darted between his, searching, and then slowly, slowly, she lowered her weapon, the tip clacking against the ground at her feet as she let the trigger slide away from her fingers. “A whole pack of werewolves that wanna help people,” she said, considering.

            “I said they _did_ help people,” Stiles corrected automatically. “They helped me. They helped my friend.”

            Jo took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, studying him carefully and clearly going over all of her options. Stiles did not press, just let her think, let her assess on her own time, hoping his pleas were enough to convince her, or at least that her curiosity was such that she would agree. When she glanced to her partner, he just gave a little shrug.

            “Okay,” she said slowly, in a tone that told Stiles she was not agreeing. “So say we help you, if we even can. What then?” she asked. “What’s in it for us, saving a bunch of wolves? Nothing’s free in this world.”

            Stiles nodded, having expected help would come with a cost. “We don’t carry much with us,” he admitted. “Food, and some supplies, but I know they’d be willing to give you any of it. All of it. And we can get more of whatever you need. Or maybe there’s something you folks can do with werewolf bits- claws or teeth or fur or something. Maybe-“

            “All right, okay,” Jo said, waving a hand to shut him up. “Look, we’re set on food and supplies, and there’s not a lot that can be done with werewolf _pieces_. Mom might not turn down a few claws, but… well, I was thinking something… else.”

            Stiles did not like the sound of that. Food, medicine, clothing, weapons- these were all the currency of the apocalypse, and almost anyone could be bought if you had what they needed. It was this that Stiles had bet the lives of the pack upon by coming here; that the hunters could rationalize helping the wolves if the pay were good enough.

            “What else?” Stiles said softly, heart racing as Boyd bristled.

            She considered him again for a moment, and Stiles could not guess what she looked for in his face. Whatever it was, she found it, because she blew out a breath and gestured down the road in the direction he’d been heading earlier. “We have a bit of a monster problem at home. Something we haven’t exactly been able to stop on our own. Your friends took down a grim, so I’m thinking maybe they can handle this, too.”

            Stiles blinked again, mind grabbing sluggishly at the idea of some kind of supernatural creature that an encampment of hunters could not handle that also would not have wiped them from the map entirely. There did not tend to be a lot of middle ground where supernatural creatures were concerned.

            “What is it?” Stiles asked, not ready to agree without knowing how dangerous it would be to engage. Whatever it was had to be very clever, to have made the hunters so desperate they would ask for supernatural aid. “The creature?”

            “Yes or no, Stiles,” she said, anything else clearly not up for debate. “If your friends are really what you say they are, if they listen to you and they want to help people, it shouldn’t be a problem to agree.”

            “It’s kind of a problem if they’ll die doing it,” Stiles said, a little more hotly than he intended. He felt Boyd tense under his hand.

            Jo shrugged. “If we don’t help you, they’re dead anyway, right?”

            Stiles could hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it thrumming under his skin. This was more what he had expected. This was hunter behavior. This is what he had left behind when he struck out with the wolf pack… but this was also what he suddenly realized needed to change. This was what _he_ needed to help change, starting right here, right now.

            “Yeah,” he agreed. “They’ll help you, or they’ll try to. But Jo… you gotta know something.”

            “What’s that?” she said, guarded.

            He met her eyes when he spoke, steady and clear. “They would have helped you without being forced. If you had just asked, they would have helped anyway.”

            Jo stared back, searching his eyes, and he could see that she understood what he was saying, saw the tiny flicker of guilt. Then she nodded curtly and turned to her companion. “Rick, you run back home and grab anything we might need, I’ll stay here and keep an eye on them so you’re not followed. Tell my ma we’re going with them, and that if we’re not back in a few hours, come looking. And come armed.”

            That was a fair enough warning, Stiles thought, nodding when she looked at him for acceptance of her plan.

            With a murmur of assent, Rick took off at a jog down the road away from them, and Stiles breathed a silent sigh of relief. His fingers tightened in Boyd’s fur, and the wolf leaned into his thigh. They would go back, and the hunters would help, and everything would turn out okay. It had to. Stiles just prayed they were not too late already.

            As soon as Rick was out of sight, Jo dropped her gaze to Boyd, eyes squinting up in consideration. Stiles tipped his head a little in question, aware as soon as he did it that it was an acquired gesture. Jo raised her eyebrows in question back.

            “D’you think he’d let me pet him?”

 

* * *

 

            It had taken Stiles over half an hour to run the three miles to the edge of the Roadhouse’s territory. It took longer to get back without the edge of desperation and with Stiles already tired. Despite his worry, his quick head count when they arrived affirmed that no one had died in his absence. He let out a shaky breath of relief just in time for Peter to place his bulky wolf form bodily between the armed hunters and the ailing pack.

            Both hunters raised their guns at the show of teeth and bristled fur.

            “Peter,” said Derek sharply from somewhere beyond the cart, a clear command. Peter didn’t move, didn’t even flick an ear to show he’d heard, and Jo and Patrick kept their guns up.

            “I thought you said they were friendly,” Jo said wryly to Stiles, but he could hear an edge of fear in her tone.

            “They _are_ ,” Stiles said, getting between Peter and the hunters. A low growl thrummed in Peter’s chest, warning but not threatening. “Especially when they know that I just found someone to _help us_ with that venom problem.”

            Boyd stepped up beside Stiles then as well, and Peter’s attention shifted infinitesimally. Though Stiles couldn’t hear the words the two exchanged, he guessed the meaning of them; confirmation of what Stiles had said, and affirmation that these hunters had done no harm. Would _do_ no harm, either.

            “We brought supplies,” Jo said, loud and clear. She knew enough, it seemed, to recognize that the wolf before them was not the alpha. “To treat the grim venom.”

            “Human anti-venom?” Derek called.

            “That’s what I have,” Jo called back, relaxing a little. “Will that work for… you?”

            There was a stillness to the area for a long moment before Derek spoke up again. “Probably not. Peter stop being an asshole and let her over here.”

            Peter didn’t get out of their way, but when Stiles lead Jo a step to the side, he also didn’t move to stop them. Jo glanced to Stiles, and he escorted her around the edge of the cart to where they could see the pack. The very naked, bleeding, sprawled-out pack that had not moved at all since Stiles had left them. That did not bode well.

            “Oh, Jesus,” Jo murmured, weapon forgotten at the sight. “You weren’t kidding.”

            “About what part?” Stiles said dryly. “Can you help?”

            Jo blew out a breath and ran one hand over her hair, setting her rifle on the ground with a little clatter. “I don’t know. I thought- I don’t know. Maybe. It died there?” she asked, pointing to the scorch mark on the pavement.

            “Yes,” Derek said roughly. There was a puddle of black blood under his hip where he’d been bitten, his body clearly failing to purge the toxin. Stiles felt sick. “Burned itself up when it died.”

            For a moment Jo just stood there, eyes darting and brows furrowed as she processed. Stiles waited, unwilling to interrupt her, and the wolves all seemed to be too out of it to say anything either. The rasp of dying breaths filled the silence.

            “Kid, gimme that skull,” she said at last, raising her voice to call out as he handed it over. “Rick! I need your lighter.” She knelt and began to gingerly unwrap the skull.

            “I got wolves between me and- oh.” Patrick’s voice dropped low and the sound of movement echoed a few seconds before Boyd trotted to their side and spat the lighter out on the ground.

            Jo scooped it up without hesitation and sat for a minute with the skull between her knees, looking at it. Then she looked up and fixed her gaze on Derek’s prone form. “I tell you to do something, you don’t ask questions about it, okay?” she said firmly. “Wolf?”

            “Derek,” he supplied. “I won’t ask.”

            Jo considered this for one breath, two, and then nodded. “Okay. You’re going to have to promise not to kill me when I apply this.”

            “I’m not gonna like this, am I,” Derek said with a tired sounding noise.

            “Probably not,” she agreed. “I’m going to try the anti-venom first, but… like you said, it’s made for humans, so there’s a good chance it’s going to hurt you. Maybe a lot.” She pulled her satchel around to the front, dropping the lighter into it before digging until she produced a small vial of glowing liquid. “But, on the other hand, it might literally be the only chance you have to live.”

            Derek shifted so that he could see her down the length of his body, and they looked at one another until he put his head back down.

            “Okay,” He agreed weakly.

            Jo didn’t move. “Before I… this isn’t free, you know. Helping you.”

            “What do you want?” Derek asked. He didn’t sound surprised. Stiles wondered what he expected her to say and figured whatever Derek thought, it wasn’t going to be what she asked.

            “Your help,” Jo said quietly, and Derek lifted his head again in surprise. Jo didn’t flinch, just stared right back, looking desperately hopeful. “My home has been attacked several times by a chimera. We’ve shot it, we’ve burned it, we’ve… it keeps coming back. It’s killed four people.”

            Stiles blinked. A chimera. He’d never seen one in person, but it was exactly the sort of creature that could wreak enough havoc to give hunters a problem but not enough to destroy them completely. Unfortunately, he had no idea whether it would be a match for the wolves as well.

            “And you want us to kill it,” Derek concluded.

            Jo opened her mouth and Stiles could practically hear the agreement on the tip of her tongue. But then she looked over at Stiles, at the werewolves all around her, and she shook her head. “We just need you to make sure it doesn’t come back to hurt us,” she said carefully, surprising Stiles again. “If you can drive it away or ask it to leave, that’s all we need.”

            Stiles’ eyes widened and he had to tamp down on his surprise to keep from making a sound. He had never heard a hunter speak so softly to a super, never heard a hunter admit death did not have to be the answer after blood had been drawn. Gerard would _never_ have offered any solution outside of brutal death.

            But then, Gerard would never have agreed to help save a super’s life, and would not have been humble enough to ask for help in the first place.

            Derek’s head hit the pavement and he blew out a pained breath. “Sure,” he said, sounding exhausted. “We’ll do what we can to help you, if we survive.”

            This seemed to placate her, and she knee-walked the last few feet between her and Derek. He shifted so that she had free access to his hip, and she dabbed some of the anti-venom onto a small square of folded cloth. He winced when she applied it to his bite wound, smearing it into the punctures and lacerations. It was purple, turned his skin purple where it touched, and Stiles craned his neck to watch for any sort of reaction.

            Unfortunately, nothing happened. Nothing _bad_ , but nothing _good_ , either, and after a few minutes of waiting, of watching Derek’s skin _not_ heal itself, Jo slumped.

            “Kinda hoped Plan A would work,” she admitted, like an apology.

            Stiles nudged the skull over to her with the tip of his toe, and she reached out to grab it by its cleanest part. Most of the ichor had been wiped off by the towel or burned off into the air the longer it was exposed. “What’s Plan B?”

            “The human version is made by combining the venom with the blood of an angel. Seraphim’s best, but any of them will do,” she explained, the vial clutched loosely in her palm as she stared at it, thinking. “But that’s a human solution for a human’s system. Angel blood does a lot for humans that it doesn’t do for other supers. We know that wolfsbane ash can cure wolfsbane poisoning in werewolves - leeches it out – so I’m gonna do something that might work with a werewolf’s system. I’m going to extract some venom, and I’m gonna burn it,” she finished, setting down the vial and hauling the skull into her lap.

            “Wait,” Stiles said the moment before she chipped her knife into the venom hollow. “Peter said that the grim’s fire burns up to the venom and ignites it, and that… it can revive a grim. How do you know normal fire won’t do the same thing?”

            She studied him for a second before looking back to the skull in her lap. “I don’t,” she said. “Why, do you have a better idea?”

            He didn’t, so after a pause, he motioned for her to continue. She turned back to her task, hands trembling a little, and punctured the venom socket as close to the top as possible. Slowly, she chipped a hole in it big enough she could dip the corner of the cloth into the viscous, purple fluid. Stiles held his breath as she withdrew the cloth and pulled the lighter back out of her satchel.

            “Moment of truth,” she said, throwing Stiles a sidelong glance, and flicked the lighter.

            She laid the cloth over the wound, and touched the flickering flame to it.

            Derek’s hips lifted, and he _howled_ as black shot through his veins, under his skin, turning his entire body into a mess of darkness. Jo scrambled back to avoid being kicked, and Stiles moved closer in case he could help. Derek didn’t even seem to be aware of anything beyond the pain, eyes screwed shut and jaw clamping shut on his scream. Somewhere behind them, Boyd, Peter, and Patrick rounded the cart to see what had happened, Patrick with gun in hand and both wolves hackled and ready to fight.

            Then Derek fell still, panting, his voice strangled in his throat as he let out a whimper of relief. Slowly, too slowly in Stiles’ opinion, the black began to recede, and purple venom began to seep from the open wound. Jo shoved one hand into her satchel and pulled out another piece of cloth, this one bigger than the last, and began to wipe it away as quickly as it could appear.

            “I can’t believe that worked,” she breathed out, scrubbing the back of her wrist over her forehead to clear the sweat despite the cold. “Rick, get the others ready. Derek are you…?”

            “I’m fine,” he rasped, curling so that he could take the cloth from her. She pulled it back, out of his reach, and shook her head.

            “Nuh-uh, I’m keeping this,” she said. “I’m sure we can find some kind of use for stabilized grim venom.”

            “Help my pack,” Derek replied, holding his hand out for the sullied cloth. “You can have it back, I promise. I can clean myself up, but I can’t help them. You can.”

            Jo stared at him, unblinking, until he jerked his hand to reinforce what he had just said. With another second of hesitation, Jo placed the cloth in his waiting hand and gave a little shake of her head as she got to her feet. “He told us you were different,” she said quietly. “I guess that’s true.”

            Derek looked over at Stiles, who shrugged because he _had_ said as much, and it _was_ true. The wolves were all so different than humans thought they were.

            “Less clothes?” Derek asked Jo without looking at her, too seriously to be serious, and Jo’s bark of laughter startled everyone.

            “Less _fur_ ,” she said as she walked away, heading for Laura next.

            Stiles dropped his eyes from Derek’s first, letting them fall down to the still-ugly bite wound. Already the outermost tooth marks were starting to close, which Stiles took as a good sign. He knelt down beside him and reached over to tug the cloth from Derek’s grasp. Gently, he began to give Derek’s hip gentle swipes to clear away more venom

            “Thank you,” Derek murmured, so softly only the other wolves would hear. “For coming back.”

            Stiles’ eyes flicked up and then dropped back to his task, and he could feel his cheeks heating. “Thanks for not leaving,” he returned, just as softly.

 

* * *

  

            “As humans,” Jo had told them all before leaving, and it was as humans that they all approached the Roadhouse. Everyone, that was, except for Peter, who had drawn the short straw to pull the cart.

            The healing for the rest of the pack had gone well, once the venom had been extracted from everyone’s wounds, but it had left them all _exhausted_ , so much so that they had barely wobbled to their feet to leave. While they gathered themselves, Jo carefully wrapped the venom-soaked cloths in plastic from her bag, and asked if the pack minded if she kept the grim’s skull. They didn’t. None of them had wanted to be anywhere close to the thing any longer than absolutely necessary.

            As soon as they had gotten into sight of the Roadhouse, they were surrounded by humans. Clamoring, armed humans that had crowded in around them with a thousand questions on each tongue. The wolves had pulled into a tight cluster around the cart, stiff and uneasy at the proximity of so many hunters, but Jo had put herself between them and the humans.

            “You touch them, you answer to me and my mom,” she had snapped harshly at one young man that got too close. He stepped back as though burned, and stayed that way. “Jimmy, you go tell my mom we’re here, and the rest of you clear out before I gotta start knockin’ heads together. You’re gawking like you’ve never seen a wolf before, go on. I’ve got this.”

            The group cleared with minimal fuss, and Jo led them steadily toward the inn until they were joined by a scowling, middle-aged woman who fell into step beside Jo without prompting. Jo greeted her as ‘mom’ and so Stiles assumed this was the lady that they were going to have to impress.

            According to what Jo had told them on the walk in, her mother ran the Roadhouse Inn, a huge old bar building with sleeping quarters above and below it. Since the apocalypse began, another, smaller building had been erected across the street from it, more living or visiting space. Across the street on the other side, a third building had been put up, though the glimpse Stiles caught of it told him it was more of a work in progress. It was supposed to be a trade market, someday, Jo had said.

            “You’re a damn fool, you know that?” the woman told Jo, though Jo just shrugged.

            “What should I have done? They agreed to help with the chimera,” Jo responded.

            “Yeah, that’s what Rick told me when he got back,” she said, and by her tone, Stiles realized exactly why Jo had sent Rick back to get supplies alone. “And that’s the only reason I didn’t let any of the locals take a shot from the roof, by the way.”

            “Much appreciated,” Derek said from Jo’s other side.

            The lady looked over with a calculating expression, as if determining whether or not Derek’s ability to form cogent speech was going to be a problem for her. “I’m still not convinced but… we don’t have a lot of choices right now. I don’t want to give up my home.”

            “No one ever does,” Derek told her gently. “We were forced out of ours recently. I understand the sentiment.”

            “Good,” the lady said gruffly. “What’s your name, son?”

            “Derek Hale,” Derek answered quickly.

            “My name’s Ellen. Ellen Harvelle,” she amended quickly, and then dropped her gaze back to Jo. “You take them up to the end rooms, now, you hear?”

            “Yes, mom,” Jo said, exasperated in a way that suggested that was already her plan. “I’ll bring them up some food, too, if they don’t come down for dinner.”

            Stiles could have told her that the wolves wouldn’t be down for dinner, but he figured that much was painfully obvious. If not because they were exhausted then because the idea of sitting in the middle of a room full of hunters while weakened was no one’s idea of a good time. If they were granted refuge here, their best interests lay in being as unobtrusive as possible.

            Ellen walked them the rest of the way to the Roadhouse doors, and held them open for the human members of the pack to enter with Jo. Everyone hesitated when they realized they would have to split up, most of them going indoors while Peter put up the cart. Boyd cleared his throat and took a step toward Peter.

            “I’ll help Peter bring in our belongings,” he said gruffly, the perfect excuse to stay without looking like they completely didn’t trust these humans. “Go on.”

            Reluctantly, the pack split, and Jo led the rest of them upstairs while Boyd and Peter stayed with Ellen. Stiles kept to the rear of the pack, watching for signs of hostility from the couple of humans in the large gathering room as they crossed it. Mostly, the hunters just looked _tired_ , the same sort of tired Stiles had felt before he had found Beacon Hills. The sort of tired resigned to putting one foot in front of the other, because nothing else remained.

            Jo led them all the way to the end of the hall, as far from the stairs as they could possibly get, and stopped. She fidgeted nervously for a second and then patted the solid, wooden door. “I figure you don’t wanna be split up, so this is the biggest room we have. If you need more space, that one’s open too,” she said, pointing across the hall to another door. “Do you need anything… special?”

            Derek smiled wearily. “Just time,” he said softly. “My uncle will bring food up for us.”

            She smiled, shifting again, and then she shrugged. “Well, I guess you’re set then. The chimera was just here a couple of days ago, so it shouldn’t be back for another day or two. Is that enough time?”

            “Yes,” Derek told her with a little nod. “If we aren’t disturbed, we should be fine by tomorrow morning.” He reached out, laid a gentle touch to her arm as she passed, and she jumped, turning to look at him. “Thank you. For helping us.”

            “Can’t claim it was altruistic,” Jo said firmly. “You know that.”

            Derek nodded. “I do know that. Still, trusting us was a risk and I thank you for taking it.”

            Even in the low light through the window at the end of the hall, Stiles could see the blush on her cheeks. “Yeah, well, don’t make me regret it, Wolf.”

            With that, she slipped past them and headed back down the stairs, leaving them to their business. Derek watched her go until she was out of sight, and then turned and opened the room door. He leaned in, gave one glance around, and then nodded his approval. Sparing the pack a quick glance, he moved inside first.

            The pack crowded in behind him, and as soon as Stiles could see the room for himself, he realized that they were probably going to have to cram inside to get all seven wolves, himself, and Lydia into it. At the same time, he knew that they were going to do it. There was exactly zero chance they would divide the pack after the events of the day- not out on the road, and definitely not in a lair full of hunters.

            Stiles left the door open behind himself for Peter and Boyd, and picked his way across the room to a clear spot. Derek was stripping out of his clothing, folding it neatly into a pile and putting it on top of the small set of drawers by the bed. Isaac and Erica were following suit, and Derek waved the both of them toward the only bed in the room. They hesitated, but as soon as they were in wolf form they hopped up and curled into a pile together. There was enough room for them, barely, and Stiles knew that when Boyd got up here, he would pile in as well.

            At least the bed frame looked sturdy enough to take several hundred pounds of werewolf, Stiles thought as he settled tiredly on the floor, up against the wall adjacent to the door.

            To his surprise, Laura came to sit beside him, her legs crossed and her head tipped back. She didn’t speak, and he didn’t prompt her, just watched Derek slip into his wolf form as Boyd and Peter returned. Peter closed the door, locked it, and then toed off only his shoes. Derek flopped down by the door, blocking it with his entire furry body, and put his head down. By the set of his shoulders, Stiles knew he fell asleep before Lydia and Jackson had even finished arranging themselves on the floor, Peter stretching out along Lydia’s other side.

            Stiles listened to the gentle cadence of the pack falling into utterly exhausted sleep around him, and closed his eyes. They had saved his life today, for no other reason than that he had become theirs. They had trusted him to protect them in turn, enough to walk into exceedingly dangerous territory while still worn down from fighting and healing. They trusted him, as they had nightly since they left Beacon Hills, enough to fall asleep without anyone watching him.

            It felt _safe_ , safer than being surrounded by humans inside of walls ever had.

            Laura shifted beside him, but when he opened his eyes, hers were still closed. “You know why he did it, don’t you?” she murmured, the softest rasp of air without volume. “Killed that thing?”

            Stiles let the question sit between them, not sure if she actually wanted an answer or not. Most of the time he still could not tell with her. When she made no other move or query, Stiles began turning the question over in his head, searching for the right answer, or at least a matching one.

            _You want me to kill you?_

            He closed his eyes again.

            _I don’t… want you dead._

            “Maybe he couldn’t kill me,” Stiles whispered back finally. “Or didn’t want to. Or didn’t want to let me die. I don’t know. All things considered, it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

            She gave a soft snort, and rested her head on his shoulder. He would never call it snuggling to her face. “Love rarely does,” she told him.

            Stiles’ breath went soft in his chest, but he didn’t ask her what she meant. He let his eyes drift over to Derek’s prone form, black fur stark against the pale oak floor.

            Love.

            He didn’t know what to make of that.

 

* * *

 

 _We killed the grim last night. It was a close thing- I was bitten, as were several of the others. The pain of the venom… I thought we were dead. We should have been. We_ would _have been, if not for Stiles. He left us to find hunters, of all things. People who should have come to kill us._

_And they didn’t. They saved us._

_On Stiles’ word, and mine, they gave us sanctuary within their home. They brought us food and water and let us heal in peace, together._

_They want us to help them. They want us to save them in return, but chimera are dangerous things. Many spit acid, and their blood can outburn our healing, to speak nothing of their teeth and claws and venom. I’m not sure that we will survive a standoff with such a creature._

_We are going to try. Isaac says that someone has to take the first step, if humans and supers are ever going to reconcile the way Stiles suggests we can. I think he’s right. I just wish it were not such a dangerous step to take._


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 2 | Chapter 11**

Travel Chapter

( _Mid-February_ )

 

* * *

 

            _Of all the places I ever expected to be in my life, sleeping safely in a den full of hunters did not make the list. I suppose I can thank Stiles for that, or maybe blame him, I’m not sure yet. It depends on how this goes._

_Peter says we should just leave. He’s probably right. But… they need our help, and they did save us, so we’re going to try anyway. Someone has to take the first step toward making a difference in this broken world, and it might as well be us._

_Last night, Isaac told Erica that he likes the idea of making a difference. Erica told him he’s an idiot, but Boyd agreed with Isaac. He said that if we do this, maybe the next time these hunters come across a super in the wild, they hesitate. Maybe they ask questions instead of pulling knives or triggers. Maybe what we do here now will save a life somewhere down the road._

_I think I agree with Erica. It’s a nice idea, but once we leave this place, I doubt it will take long for these humans to forget the kindnesses done for them._

_Still… I find I want to try. I suppose I can blame our human for that, too._

 

* * *

 

            The hunters, as it turned out, were actually more scared of the chimera than of the prospect of hosting a pack of werewolves to fight said chimera. When the pack finally roused itself from its fourteen-hour healing stupor, it was to the scent of warm stew and freshly baked flat breads. Jo and Rick brought trays of it up, far more than Stiles had been expecting, more than any of them had expected, and then she told them there was more, if they needed it.

            They did need it- healing, especially so much and so quickly, cost them a lot of energy. It took only a short discussion before Derek agreed they should replace what food they used. Despite everyone’s reservations about splitting up, Boyd and Peter volunteered to hunt shortly after the pack had settled. Stiles escorted the two of them to the front door of the Roadhouse, where they were confronted by a trio of burly hunters- the same that Stiles had seen looking so dead tired the night before.

            “You’re gonna fight that monster we got killin’ our men?” one of them asked.

            Peter and Boyd both bristled, but Stiles had put himself firmly between the two groups, so that the wolves would have to go through him. “They are,” he said simply.

            “Hm!” the man gruffed, lifting his chin and looking between the two werewolves. “Good, then. You let us know how we can help, and we’ll have your backs.”

            _That_ startled both of the wolves into confused murmurs of agreement before Stiles practically hauled them outside to set them free upon the world. When Stiles came back inside, after watching the wolves flicker off into the woods in beta shift, he returned to roughly eight thousand questions and more than a few confused and skeptical expressions.

            So while the wolves plotted their strategy upstairs, Stiles sat downstairs and told the tale of his adventures to the hunters. Told them of Scott’s bite, of his camp’s prejudices, of how they had killed Raul without knowing he’d only been bitten by a beta. He told them about meeting Derek’s sister, and about the dragons – especially the dragons, playful and kind – and about the first wail of the grim on his trail. He told them about Cheyenne, how still and quiet and empty it had been, and of the _thing_ they had seen moving through the remains of North Platte.

            He told them about the moment the wolves said _no more_ , and had turned to fight for him. How they had been willing to sacrifice themselves to save him. He reminded them, in soft tones, that the wolves were now going to risk their lives to save this place, too.

            Much to his surprise, the idea was met with a certain sense of acceptance. These were hunters, humans used to tracking down and picking off supernatural creatures of all ilk, but most especially those who had a humanoid form. They were often easier targets, smaller and less dangerous to confront in the wild.

            But, as one of the younger ladies explained, in this world one had to take fortune where they could find it. “Even before this damned apocalypse, there was a saying- ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ If there are supers out there like your wolves, well, then we’re on the same side as far as I’m concerned.”

            And that was that. They let him retire to the bedroom with his friends, after loading him up with a tray full of meat for which the wolves had been grateful.

            The rest of the day was spent in relative peace. Boyd and Peter dragged back a good sized deer carcass an hour before dark, and the entire roadhouse helped butcher it up and get it sectioned out into cuts for drying and for stew. A lot of it got spit roasted for dinner, and the hunters sang very loud songs in praise of the good food while the wolves retreated to their room to avoid the noise.

            “No wonder the chimera wants to eat them,” Erica snarked, but she had taken her portion of the meat, and she smiled when she said it. Stiles called it a draw, and enjoyed his own bit of well-cooked venison.

            It wasn’t until late into the night that everything went to shit.

            They had no warning at all, which Stiles found terrifying, as the Roadhouse had posted extra sentries specifically for the chimera. The wolves, having slept for so long and eaten so well, were out on patrol, looking for signs of the beast that might tell them where it had come from, or where it went when it left. Derek had suggested that catching it away from the camp was their best bet for a clean fight.

            It was not a clean fight.

            Screams split the night air from one of the sentry points, sending all of the humans scrambling. Bullets flew but seemed to almost slide off of the draconic scales beneath its fur. It whirled and spat, the drippy, green acid hitting several hunters at the same time and sending them to the ground clutching and tearing at their clothing to escape the burn. The chimera’s hindquarters hunched as it prepared for a spring to the nearest fallen human, and Stiles dashed forward to help.

            The night coalesced before he could get there, hitting the huge creature like a battering ram, sending it sprawling to one side with an unholy shriek. It batted out one wing as it flailed back onto its feet, shoving one of the two black wolves off of its body. Derek managed to stay, his massive alpha werewolf form too big to push around that easily, but still barely a quarter the size of the chimera.

            Its dragon jaws snapped shut an inch from Derek’s face as he threw himself backward to dodge. Along the chimera’s other side, Peter slipped in to grab hold of the creature’s left ankle and yank to keep it from pouncing while Boyd distracted the goat head from ramming heavy, curled horns into any of them. Lydia reached Stiles’ side and together they pulled one of the injured hunters away from the battle, under the guard of the others.

            “The eyes!” Stiles shouted over the shrieks and snarls. “Shoot for the eyes! And don’t hit the wolves!”

            He knew what an impossible order that was, with the wolves whirling in and out of battle, but nothing else about the creature was particularly penetrable. Peter’s teeth hadn’t even pierced the traditionally thin skin on its ankle, and he had been forced to let go when the viper tail struck. Erica was having no more luck on the other side, though they were trading off who held the snake’s attention.

            The dragon head hissed and snapped at Laura as she danced closer, and while it was distracted, Derek lunged in again, huge jaws closing on the skin at the joint where the chimera’s wing met its body. Blood, blue and acidic, spilled out into the dust as Derek dragged down, throwing all of his weight into unbalancing it. Both wings flung out for balance and Peter took the opening the same as Derek had, on the opposite side. Erica snarled and feinted at the viper tail to keep its attention on her instead of Peter, and more blood spilled onto the road.

            Enraged and clearly done with dancing, the chimera spun right and threw itself forward at Derek, both clawed paws stretched wide. Derek lifted onto both feet to take the assault full on, jaws snapping wildly at the lion and dragon heads as both monsters toppled over in a flurry of limbs and strikes. Red joined the blue in the dirt.

            Laura threw herself into the fray, Peter on the other side, to catch the edges of the chimera’s wings. Her teeth dragged long, jagged lines of open flesh down the leathery webbing, and she was forced to let go as the acidic blood burned her. Boyd and Jackson dashed in head-on, biting and scuffling long enough to distract the heads from tearing at Derek.

            The dragon head lashed out with far more speed than expected, latching onto Jackson’s flank as he retreated and dragging him into the dirt like a hawk on prey. Boyd howled and sank teeth into the goat’s throat at the same time Derek took the opportunity to kick both hind feet up and into the belly of the beast. Levering himself against the ground, Derek raked his claws from sternum toward groin. Halfway down, the chimera threw its wings open and put its entire weight into getting away, dragging both Jackson and Boyd along like ragdolls.

            Boyd twisted, curling to bring his hind feet up against the chimera’s chest as it reared away from Derek’s killing blow, and the moment he had purchase, he pushed. A huge chunk of flesh came with him when he dropped to the ground, blue blood spraying over him before he could get to his feet again. Jackson’s body dropped down beside him as the dragon and lion heads roared in pain in unison.

            Stiles watched in horror as Boyd began to twist and scream, his wolf form giving way to soft human skin as the acidic blood ate into him. Faintly he heard Lydia’s voice above the shouts of the hunters, and then someone was dousing Boyd with a bucket of water that sluiced the acid from his skin into puddles. Another, and a third, and Boyd was crawling to his hands and knees to move away from the fight.

            Peter had gotten his teeth back into an ankle and was yanking every time the chimera bent to snap at Laura or Derek. Erica had her teeth in the chimera’s tail, shaking it like a rope toy in an attempt to tear it off, though she was having no manner of luck at all. The chimera was flinging blood with every movement it made, gushing from the tears in its wings and the limp-hanging goat’s head.

            And then the dragon head opened its maw and spat a slew of molten fire out at Isaac, who had been feinting strikes at the heads to keep its attention off of Derek, and even the ground burst into flame.

            Stiles’ heart dropped into his feet.

            Derek lunged, teeth clamping around the dragon’s throat while the creature was focused on Isaac’s burning form, and yanked with all the strength of a desperate, alpha werewolf.

            The dragon’s throat came with him, and the flame ceased immediately.

            Isaac was a screaming, rolling mess, trying to put out the flames in the dirt. Two men – travelers, not hunters, something in Stiles noted - rushed past Stiles with buckets of water to douse Isaac, and Stiles stumbled forward to stop them. “NO!!” he shouted, grabbing one by the arm, and the other halted. “You’ll make it worse!”

            Though he had never encountered one himself, Stiles had heard that a chimera’s fire was not like dragonfire. Where dragons ignited gasses, chimera ignited _oils_ , liquids that clung and burned worse than any dragon could. This was part of the reason they were so dangerous, and Stiles knew that this one must not have spat fire before today. They were going to have to let Isaac put out his own flames.

            The chimera staggered on Peter’s next yank, one wing shooting out to slam into the ground for balance. It couldn’t spring forward at Derek as long as Peter had its foot, could barely stand upright anyway. Blood loss was taking its toll. The last remaining head snarled at Derek when he got too close, and Derek snarled right back, louder and meaner and sharper. It made a softer noise, not quite a whimper, and tugged at its foot in Peter’s grasp. Derek hesitated, chest heaving with each breath, and then he nodded.

            Stiles looked between the two, and knew that somehow, they were communicating. It was talking to Derek- _could_ talk to Derek.

            One of its forelegs buckled and Peter yanked with the motion, dragging it off balance and into the dirt.

            Erica let go of the now-limp tail.

            Derek moved in for the kill.

 

* * *

 

            Dark settled like a blanket on the world, thick and heavy and muffling the sounds of celebration from the middle of the crossroads. It had been hours since the chimera had fallen to the wolf pack, and the humans had not been quiet since. The wolves had all gotten help cleaning themselves of the acid and the fire-burned oil, and although they had sustained heavy injuries, Peter had assured everyone that no one was going to die tonight. Not even Jackson, who had been unable to use his hind legs for almost an hour while the nerves repaired from nearly being bitten in two.

            Now they were all curled up together in the bedroom above the inn, plenty of food and water in a pile of plates in the center. They had eaten their fill, and most of them were sound asleep, deep into their healing stupor. Lydia’s fingers stroked soothingly through Jackson’s coarse fur, but Stiles was not convinced she was actually conscious.

            The only one left awake, as far as he could tell, was Derek. He sat up against the door again, though in human form this time, head tipped back and eyes ticking over the blank ceiling like maybe it had some kind of answer.

            “What did it say to you?” Stiles asked quietly, barely a whisper. No one stirred at his query, though Derek’s attention did freeze in place. “The chimera. Right before…”

            Derek shook his head and closed his eyes. “Nothing,” he said.

            Stiles considered pushing the issue, but he had at least some idea about not wanting to talk about things that hurt too much, so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the beat of Jackson’s heart beneath his skull. He made a surprisingly good pillow.

            “She asked me to make it swift.” Derek’s voice cracked, and he curled up into himself, forehead dropping to his crossed arms on his knees. “I told her to leave. She refused, and she told me _do it quickly_.”

            “Derek…” Stiles murmured, sitting up, torn between letting Derek have his space and going to him. The decision was taken from him when a polite tap on the door interrupted.

            “It’s Ellen,” came the soft voice, and Stiles realized that he had no trouble hearing her. The festivities outside had gone completely silent. “One of you… well, there’s something you ought to see.”

            Derek and Stiles shared a look, and Stiles glanced over his shoulder to Lydia. “I’ll watch them,” she reassured him, and he nodded.

            “Something’s wrong,” Derek murmured under his breath as soon as Stiles was close enough to hear. It wouldn’t carry to the other side of the door.

            “Yeah,” Stiles agreed. They needed a break, but it did not seem that they would get one tonight.

            Derek tugged open the door and let Stiles through first. Together they followed Ellen down the stairs and outside into the night. Already along the eastern horizon, the sun was beginning to peek over, tarnishing the bruised sky with the gold of dawn. The humans were gathered around the corpse of the chimera, all along one side, and as they drew closer Stiles could see someone crouched on the ground. Her shock of blonde hair was unmistakable, even in the low light.

            “What is it?” Stiles called out to announce themselves, and the crowd parted almost instantly. Jo was on her knees in a puddle of blue-tainted water, and there was something in her lap.

            “I think it…” she trailed off, looking over her shoulder and then rotating around so they could see.

            In her hands, she held what appeared to be a tiny, softer version of the creature they had just killed. Its tawny, lion-cub head still had spots and both the goat and the dragon heads had only nubs for horns. Its oversized wings draped out to either side of her thighs, hugging tightly and bracketing her in. It let out a pathetic, lonesome mewl.

            “It’s a baby…” he breathed out, stunned. “Where did you find it?” Surely they had gone on patrol and located the chimera’s den.

            “It was in her.” Jo waved a kind of vague hand at the carcass beside her. “It was in a pouch, on her belly. We heard it crying, just now, and…”

            And it was adorable, and in need, and humans were _the worst suckers_ , Stiles thought in despair. His own heart squeezed just looking at the thing, despite that he knew what had to happen now. They would have to kill it. And that should be simple, a quick and easy action against something so small and inhuman, but Stiles knew better. He knew he was not the only one here grappling with the realization that humans had been wrong about supers. He was not the only one who looked at the wolves and saw People, and maybe not the only one looking at the tiny creature in Jo’s lap and wondering if that word applied to it, too.

            He did know that regardless of any of that, not one of the humans at the collective Roadhouse, including himself, would kill the pup as long as Jo was still nearby. She was stroking its head and talking to it in baby talk. She looked up at them, and some part of Stiles knew then that he could not possibly be alone. In her eyes, he recognized that same yawning, desperate feeling that had consumed him the moment Derek had shouted _we don’t kill humans_.

            “I couldn’t kill it,” she told them, voice thin, and Stiles’ heart twisted. “It’s just a baby. I thought maybe you would know… if it’s possible…?”

            “You could keep him,” Derek said softly, his tone testing. All eyes turned to him, yet he just kept his gaze on her. “Very few humans can boast having a live, captive chimera.”

            “We don’t need bragging rights here,” Jo said firmly, body tightening a bit around the little creature, like maybe she thought Derek had evil plans for it.

            “Then consider that he will grow up, eventually,” Derek amended, sounding relieved. His next words, though spoken to her, were for the benefit of the other hunters around them. “A single male chimera is a highly territorial creature, and Chimera protect their family units to the death. If you raised him, you would be his family. We can’t stay to protect you forever but…”

            “But he might,” Jo concluded for him, loudly, enough for the others to hear. Derek nodded, and she returned her gaze to the drooping chimera cub gumming at her fingertips with every indication that he was about to pass out asleep. “Yeah,” she said, more to herself than to Derek. “Yeah, he might. Or he might kill us.”

            “The same could be said of me and of my pack,” Derek reminded her carefully. “And yet, you let us into your home, and we saved it. My mother used to tell me that the best adventures begin with a single step. Perhaps this one is yours.”

            She gave a soft snort, but she did not make any other move. Stiles shifted a little closer to Derek and waited until Jo took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay,” she said with an air of finality. “You saved us, right? So, I’m gonna pay it forward. We’ll try.”

            Stiles glanced over in time to see a soft smile turn up the corners of Derek’s lips.

 

* * *

 

            “It’s mostly straight south from us,” Ellen assured them, pointing again to the map in Lydia’s hands. “If you go south ‘til you hit 80 again, you can take it east for a while, until it starts going back north… then you just head south and east through the wild. You stay east of Dallas, and don’t go in, y’hear?”

            “What’s in Dallas?” Lydia asked, looking dubious.

            “Nothing anymore,” Ellen told her. “Best you just stay to its east and avoid it, okay?”

            “Okay,” Lydia agreed, glancing up at the excited yips and snarls from the middle of the crossroads where Isaac and Erica were running circles around the little chimera cub, playing. “Thank you, Ellen.”

            Ellen smiled, glancing over to Stiles as well. “Thank you, all of you. We won’t soon forget what you’ve done and, well, I wish you the best of luck out there. The world’s a rough place.”

            Lydia smiled back, and passed the map to her. “It is,” she agreed. “But, I think we’ll be okay. We’ve got each other, and now we’ve got someplace to go.”

            After the fight with the chimera, the pack had spent a couple more days among the hunters, slowly learning to talk to them, share stories of their post-apocalypse adventures. Stiles found it incredibly charming that the hunters kept their bloodshed stories to a minimum in the presence of the wolves, clearly not wanting to upset them with talk of killing other supers. Derek had admitted to Stiles that it felt strange to have humans being so nice to them. He kept waiting for the knife in the back.

            Two days ago, Stiles had pulled Jo aside to talk alone. In the fight with the grim, and the fight with the chimera, he had been next to useless. His bat, while certainly making him feel a little better, would not have put a dent in the chimera and would have gone right through the grim with no harm done. They were about to leave the crossroads behind, and he wanted to know if she or any of the others could teach him anything about being out in the world these days. He wanted to be useful, and these humans had been surviving on their own for years.

            “Go south,” she had told him. “Go to what’s left of Shreveport, Louisiana. Everyone says that’s where the runecasters come from. You should learn.”

            Runecasting, he discovered, was the human ability to tap into the supernatural. Magic. Casters drew upon the magic latent within the very fabric of the world, and used it to cast spells according to the runes crafted onto their bodies. It had sounded like a lot of nonsense, until one of the new arrivals had pulled up her sleeve to reveal a small set of tattoos on the inside of her forearm.

            “I didn’t take a heart rune,” she’d told Stiles, tracing over one of the runes so that it lit up bright blue. She had pulled the light away from her skin and let the glowing rune dance around her fingertips before extinguishing it with a little flick. “But, some of the lesser runes can be used by anyone. Well, any _human_.”

            Stiles didn’t care how far they had to go; as soon as he had seen the little dancing rune, he had known what he wanted to do with his life. Her rune magic had _called_ to him the way nothing else in the world yet had.

            The others had been less enthusiastic, but as they had no previous destination in mind, Shreveport was as good a destination as any. It would be a nearly three week journey, Peter had pointed out, and Laura had countered that three weeks was a small price to pay to strengthen their pack in such a way. Derek had gawked at Laura like she had grown another head for suggesting that Stiles was actually a part of the pack instead of a companion to it, but Peter had only rolled his eyes.

            “Take care of yourselves,” Ellen said softly, pulling first Lydia and then Stiles into hugs. “And come back and visit sometime, yeah?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles said, holding a little more tightly before letting her go. She reminded him of Melissa, all warmth and well wishes and consternation over his life choices. He smiled. “You too, take care of yourselves here, so we can come back and visit. And… well, give them a shot, you know? Supers. I think humans misjudged them, or maybe we all misjudged each other.”

            Ellen followed his line of sight to where Jo was on her knees in the road, fingers buried deep in Isaac’s ruff as she scrubbed at his neck and ears, grin splitting her face. The chimera cub was sprawled out beside her, panting from all three heads, wings flopped open to catch the sunlight as it watched her.

            “You might be right, kid,” Ellen said, and gave his arm a quick squeeze.

            “Time to go!” Lydia called, voice raised even though all of the wolves could have heard her at normal volume. Jo looked up, squinting against the morning sun, and gave Isaac one last good, hard scrub to his ears before releasing him.

            The cart was resting a dozen yards down the road, Boyd harnessed to it with Laura sprawled in the dirt beside him. Stiles got the distinct impression they were talking to one another, though he couldn’t prove anything. Derek came up beside him and stayed at his side and they were shortly joined by Isaac, Erica, and Jackson. Peter had gone out alone, but he knew the route they were taking and Derek had assured Stiles that he would find the pack no matter where they were.

            Stiles glanced over his shoulder to the space that lay between the Roadhouse and her unfinished market across the road. Ellen, Jo, and the other hunters and visitors had gathered to wave their goodbyes, a few of them tentatively calling good luck like they were unsure of their welcome to do so. The weight of the lighter Jo had given him as a parting gift hung heavy in his pocket, and he realized that they couldn’t all just take off without looking back. He didn’t want them all to just be strangers passing in the night, able to part without any fanfare. Stiles brushed his fingers into Derek’s fur to get his attention, and then pointed a thumb back at the humans.

            “You gotta say goodbye,” he told him, smiling when he saw Lydia cover her grin from the corner of his eye. He wondered if she felt the same. “Humans always say goodbye.”

            Derek looked over at Laura, who tossed her head in the epitome of a wolfish eyeroll, but Isaac and Erica bounded in sudden circles and planted their feet as if preparing for a fight, pink tongues lolling. Derek paused as well, circling around to face the humans. He tipped back his head, ears flattening and long jaws opening just the tiniest amount as he loosed a long, hearty howl. The others threw their heads back with mixed amounts of vigor, adding their haunting voices to the mix.

            Down the road, the humans all began to cheer before they cupped their hands to their mouths, and howled back at the top of their lungs.

            And for the first time since setting out on their journey, Stiles raised his hands to his own mouth, tossed his head back, and howled along with his pack.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles prodded lazily at the dying embers of their fire, sending little sparks up into the deep of the night and rousing a few small tongues of flame. He leaned over just far enough to grab one of the chunks of wood the wolves had brought back from their scavenging for dinner and set it carefully on top of the embers. Flame licked at its belly and grabbed hold, slowly climbing up the sides. Stiles settled back against Derek’s bulk, pulling his blanket a little tighter around his chin.

            They were a week outside of the Roadhouse crossroads, heading east and south in turns. They had raided a rest stop along 80 to get a map of their own, since they hadn’t taken the one Ellen had used to show them the way. Stiles had reasoned that they needed it more, to help others. Lydia had only agreed on the stipulation that they find a map of their own as soon as possible.

             He was just starting to drift off and was considering waking one of the others to take over the second watch when he noticed that the embers were sending up sparks all on their own. He gave a long, slow blink, tired eyes tracking the movement of the little ember sparks as they flitted back and forth and danced in small, tight circles and-

            “Hey,” he said, to no one in particular, and the sparks gave a little flurry of movement as though they had heard him. Behind him, Derek lifted his head instantly on alert even though the expression he wore said him going back sleep was more likely than coordinating a defense. “Look,” Stiles told him, pointing with one blanketed fist to the dancing sparks.

            Derek looked over, stared for a moment, and then put his head down.

            “Fire pixies,” Laura said from across the small fire. She was usually the last to sleep within the pack, usually the one Stiles woke to take over from him. “They’re attracted to the flame. Harmless, if you just leave them alone- some people think they’re a sign of good luck.”

            “They’re pretty,” Stiles observed. In the months alone with his dad before finding Beacon Hills Camp they had never encountered fire pixies- or pixies of any kind, now that he thought about it. “I’ve never seen them before.”

            “It’s been too cold,” Laura told him. “They hibernate in the winter, usually, at least in the north. In the far south, they’re active all year. Means we’re getting closer,” she said, grinning a little. “Get some sleep, I’ll take watch til dawn.”

            Stiles hummed a little noise of agreement, and settled his shoulders back against Derek again. This time, he let his eyes droop as he watched the little living sparks swirl and dance around the fire and smoke. They were beautiful, hardly as big as his thumbnail, and each a different shape and different color. The longer he watched them, the more he felt like he could hear the music they were dancing to, each note soft and swirling like the flames that licked up toward them.

            A few feet away, Jackson picked up his head, ears flicking forward and back as he looked around blearily. The motion roused Lydia, who was sleeping curled in the crook of Jackson’s body, and she glanced to Stiles for information. He just smiled back, until he realized that even in his dozy trance, he could hear music. He sat up a little straighter and nudged Derek with his elbow.

            “Do you hear that? Music,” Stiles said, voice low.

            Derek’s ears flicked as well, nose lifting to the night air. Across the fire, Laura did the same, even though her senses would be slightly dulled in her human form.

            “Wind’s the wrong way,” she told Stiles, tipping her head to listen. “But it sounds like another camp. It sounds like humans.”

            “Humans?” Lydia echoed. “They must be along the road then, travelers like us.” She traded a look with Stiles. “Maybe we should see if we can find them? Trade news?”

            “Can’t hurt,” Stiles said, already leaning to clamber to his feet. It was still fairly early in the night, maybe they could check and get back in time to get some sleep before dawn anyway. Derek reached out and grabbed his forearm in long jaws to stop him at the same time as Laura piped up again.

            “And say what? Maybe where you’re from it couldn’t hurt to talk to humans, but out here, any humans on the road are on the road because the camps don’t want them, and they’re still alive because the apocalypse hasn’t been able to kill them,” she said, voice rasping as she tried to keep her tone quiet. “It’s not safe.”

            Stiles looked back at Lydia, who gave a little half shrug. They couldn’t exactly argue with that logic; this would be the first group of traveling humans they’d ever encountered east of the Rockies. Still, they were human, and if there was one thing humans in the apocalypse liked, it was the company of other humans.

            Laura looked sharply at Jackson, blunt human teeth baring at whatever he said to her. “So that makes them good people?”

            “What does?” Stiles asked.

            “Playing music,” Laura told him, still looking snarly. “Playing instruments apparently makes you trustworthy, according to your boyfriend.”

            “He’s not-!” Stiles protested, the rest of the sentence cut short by Derek heaving himself to his feet and nearly toppling Stiles onto his face in the dirt.

            Laura snarled at Derek, too, but without meeting his eyes so Stiles knew it must have been half-hearted. Without further argument, she rose and crossed over to Derek’s side. Jackson scrambled up, bracing himself to let Lydia pull herself up with his shoulder before they joined Derek and Laura. Stiles looked between them all before deciding that they actually were leaving, and he hurried to follow.

            At the edge of their circle, the beta trio lifted their heads to a silent command, and Isaac gave a soft wuff of acknowledgement without getting up at all. Behind them, Peter hadn’t even opened his eyes, though whether that was because he was asleep or ignoring Derek was a toss up. Apparently they were not going with the group.

            Lydia peeled away from the group just long enough to grab clothing for Derek and Jackson, which she stuffed into one of the backpacks and threw over her shoulder. Derek’s forward march didn’t falter or slow at all, but Jackson waited for her so they could trot to catch up together.

            It took them a little while to get back to the closest road, and when they did, it was too obvious where the sound of music came from. A bright fire burned in the middle of the road, surrounded by a large group of laughing humans that didn’t seem to care about their volume at all. Three of them had instruments out, lively tunes dripping from fingers and lips, and a high, crisp voice singing along with words Stiles didn’t recognize. The entire sight made Stiles’ gut clench in fear. Anyone that felt that safe out here was either dangerous enough to be that safe, or had no idea what sort of danger they were in to begin with.

            “We could circle around to the far side,” Laura said. “Scent them out first. Even humans aren’t this bold.”

            “You’d be surprised,” Lydia argued. “They might not be that bold but we can be that stupid.”

            Derek looked to his right, and Jackson slipped away into the underbrush on the far side of the road. While there was very little chance he would recognize _what_ the creatures were, exactly, given that he had almost no previous knowledge of their specific scents, he would at least be able to differentiate between _human_ and _not-human_. The camp broke into raucous laughter, and a shiver clawed down Stiles’ spine.

            A few minutes later, Jackson returned, slipping back to Lydia’s side but looking to his alpha. Something passed between him and Derek, and then Derek shifted into his beta form to speak. “There are humans in that group,” he said, barely a breath of noise. “But there are also… _not_ humans. That’s… strange.”

            Stiles’ brow furrowed and he looked back toward the bonfire group. “You mean it’s supers and humans traveling together? Laughing like that, playing music?”

            “Exactly,” Derek said. “… if it’s a mixed group, then there’s a chance they would accept meeting our mixed group. If it was just us wolves, we’d stay as far away as possible, but...” He trailed off, looking pointedly at Stiles.

            Oh. Stiles straightened a little as he realized what Derek wanted, what he couldn’t ask for outright. By leaving Beacon Hills Camp, Stiles had taken the first step toward bridging the massive chasm between humans and supers. Derek had let him. By approaching the hunters of the Roadhouse crossroads, Stiles had taken another, bigger step. Derek had reluctantly followed. This time, Derek wanted to be the one to take the step forward. He wanted what Stiles wanted- to meet in the middle.

            “If you want, I can go in first,” Stiles offered, keeping his tone soft. “Lydia could come with me-“

            “If there are other supers in there, they might be able to tell I’m not… you know,” Lydia said with a little shrug. “None of us know enough about what I am to know how people will react.”

            “Okay, then I go alone,” Stiles said. “That’s fine. One human isn’t a threat to a group that large, and once I get close, I can just call if it’s safe. You can get away easily if it’s not.”

            “If it’s not safe, we won’t leave you there,” Derek told him firmly. “We’d come for you.”

            “Against what-“ Stiles turned and scanned the campfire, then shook his head. “There’s easily twenty-five people there, Derek. If it’s not safe, you’re not coming in after me. That would just end in both of us being in trouble.”

            Even through his beta form, Stiles recognized when Derek bristled. “You’re not-“

            “Please,” Stiles interrupted, using every ounce of willpower he’d ever had to keep from cowering back from the look Derek gave him. “You want the same thing I want,” Stiles continued gently. “But we can’t get there unless we’re willing to take risks. I’m willing to take this one, and you gotta be willing to let me. I can’t do a lot of the things you can do, but I can do one thing you _can’t_ \- I can talk to other humans. Even alone.”

            Derek searched his eyes for a moment, and then let out a huff of concession. “Fine. We’ll be listening. Do not do anything stupid.”

            “I’ll try. Just, stay as wolves, okay?” Stiles requested, looking at Laura as well. She rolled her eyes, but stripped out of her shirt before Stiles had even turned away.

            Stiles waited until she had slipped into her sleek, black wolf form before he nodded and headed directly for the celebrating group. The fire they had lit was stoked high and bright, turning their dancing forms into silhouettes against the flame. The sight stirred something in him, something that made him ache for home with each burst of laughter.

            It ground to a very sudden halt when the first person spotted him and shouted out. Though he was probably only barely visible in the very low light, he raised both hands into the air to show that he was unarmed, and stood where he’d been caught, almost twenty yards from the edge of the makeshift camp. Having so many eyes on him when he had no idea of their intentions or abilities left his gut twisted into a knot.

            “I come in peace!” he shouted out, though it was probably unnecessary in the sudden quiet. “My name is Stiles. I heard your music.”

            “What do you want?” someone called back, sounding nervous enough that Stiles worried they were armed despite that he could see no weapons. Not even manual ones, like his bat.

            “Company,” he replied simply. “I have my own supplies, but I would like to share your music and maybe the safety of a large group, if you will allow it.”

            That sent up a murmur that rippled through the group in waves, back and forth in discussion. When it quieted, someone moved to the edge of the camp, and then two steps further. An elected spokesperson, Stiles guessed. “You are human,” she said. “Do you know to whom you speak?”

            “As you have not introduced yourself, I’m afraid I don’t,” Stiles said, hoping his grin showed in his tone.

            She smiled and took another few steps forward, out of the orange glow of the firelight now, and Stiles could see the odd paleness to her dark skin. “My name is Clementine,” she said, softer now. “I meant, do you know what I am?”

            “Not human,” he said. That was all he knew- that and the fact that she hadn’t killed him probably meant she wouldn’t.

            Tipping her head slightly, she considered him closely. “Yet you are not afraid of me.”

            “Should I be?” he asked. “Do you mean me harm?”

            “No,” she conceded. “That does not often deter humans from fear or hatred.”

            “There are humans with you,” he pointed out.

            She turned her head, enough that he knew her attention shifted back to her camp, but not enough that she could actually see them over her shoulder. He wondered if her hearing was good enough that, like the wolves, she could listen to someone murmuring even from far away. “That is true,” she agreed. “How is it that you know these things?”

            He hesitated. He still didn’t know what she was, or if she was the only non-human in the group. If he gave away the werewolves now, there would be no going back if these people turned out to be hostile after all. On the other hand, he considered, if he never risked anything, he would never gain anything either.

            “My friends aren’t human,” he said, hoping that this would also communicate his willingness to befriend supers without revealing too much. “They want to meet you, but they were uncertain of your humans. And of you.”

            “Your friends…” she mused, looking him over with renewed interest. “They are werewolves?”

            Stiles swallowed. So she knew, even though he was certain the wolves were out of sight behind him. Somehow she knew that the wolves were there anyway, and lying wouldn’t get him very far. “Yes. Seven of them, and a banshee. And you?” he dared.

            She spread her hands and gave him an amused smile. “Vampire,” she told him, unnaturally stiff as she awaited his judgment. He had no intention of giving her one, as he had only ever encountered two vampires in the whole of the apocalypse, and both times they had been sleeping through the daylight hours. Stiles and his group had simply avoided them, rather than start trouble trying to kill something that wasn’t hunting them.

            “May we share your fire and your music, Clementine?” he asked instead.

            Another long pause, and then the woman nodded. “We would meet your friends first, if they will come forward.”

            Stiles nodded. “There are only four of us here right now,” he told her before he turned around to face down the road. “It’s safe!” he called out into the night, and only a moment later Derek, Laura, and Jackson trotted into view, Lydia keeping pace at Jackson’s side. Derek almost immediately threaded himself between Stiles and Clementine, but his sleek, smooth coat spoke of calm.

            “This is Derek, and his sister Laura, and my friend Jackson,” Stiles introduced as the others came to a stop just behind him. Derek pressed into his hip.

            “An alpha,” Clementine observed, sounding impressed. “I didn’t think wolf packs ran with non-emissary humans.”

            After another pause, presumably to listen to Derek, she laughed, and then her attention shifted to beyond Stiles. He turned to look, and Lydia gave him a reassuring smile. “And this is Lydia. She’s a banshee, though we only recently found that out. She didn’t know, either.”

            Clementine seemed to sober considerably at that. “You are very young,” she said. “I have never met a banshee in person, but I know that they do not usually earn their aether voices so young, unless they have been hurt.”

            “I don’t know what that means,” Lydia admitted. “But I’m okay, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

            “Ah,” Clementine said, in such a way that meant she didn’t believe Lydia entirely. Instead of pressing, she looked to Derek again. “Your human said your pack numbers seven.” A pause and then: “Pardon, nine then, but seven wolves. Where are the others?” Another pause as she listened, and then nodded. Laura slipped away from them, disappearing into the black. “Come.”

            With that, she turned and lead them into the watching crowd of people, toward the bonfire. Derek stayed glued to Stiles’ leg as closely as Jackson stayed to Lydia as they moved. Hushed murmurs rippled through the gathered, not discernable over the crackle of the roaring fire. Stiles felt very much like he imagined zoo animals had felt, once upon a time.

            Another woman joined them halfway there, touching hands with Clementine briefly. “What news?”

            Clementine smiled and motioned to present the small group to the woman. “Tsuru, this is the Hale pack, alpha Derek Hale, and newest wolf, Jackson Whittemore. His sister, Laura, has left to bring the rest of their pack here.”

            “And the human?” Tsuru asked, eyes shifting to Stiles, who kept his mouth shut when he recognized that some sort of custom was being observed.

            “Stiles,” Clementine said. “And the banshee is Lydia. They seek company and entertainment only. Will you have them?”

            Tsuru looked them all over, and then reached out to touch Derek’s forehead with gentle fingers. He held perfectly still and let her smooth her hand over the dome of his skull, and curl around one ear before she released him. “You have told them we are vampire?”

            “Yes,” Clementine said without hesitation. “The alpha knows we do not feed from his kind, cannot feed from the banshee, and will not feed from his human.”

            Tsuru’s attention shifted to address Derek. “Your pack agrees to do no harm?” she queried, light and peaceful, and nodded presumably when Derek responded in the affirmative. “Then you and your kin are welcome here.”

            Derek bowed his head, and Jackson hurried to follow suit, so Stiles and Lydia both copied them. Tsuru dipped her head in return, and then touched Clementine’s shoulder with a soft smile. All around them, the camp denizens turned back to their business, apparently satisfied with the proceedings. Whatever rank Tsuru had within their traveling group, everyone seemed to trust her judgment without question or concern.

            “Do any of you play an instrument?” Clementine asked as Tsuru moved away from them, returning to her place alongside the bonfire.

            “Jackson does,” Lydia said, pulling the backpack off her shoulder to unzip it. “He used to play the violin.”

            Jackson was already transforming by the time she had rummaged out his shirt and pants. He pulled them on swiftly, still clinging to human dignity outside the presence of their pack. Derek stayed as a wolf, shaking his head when Lydia held up his shirt in question. Stiles got the impression that he didn’t want to change until his entire pack was safely there and felt comfortable. Strangers were always a risk out here.

            These ones were not, they quickly found. An older human woman approached Jackson with the violin she’d been fiddling on when the pack had first heard the music, and offered it to him to play. “Hopefully you know a few songs we don’t!” she’d said with a crinkly smile.

            Although Jackson’s knowledge was fairly limited, as he’d been only sixteen when the apocalypse hit, he had known several songs to play for them. One of them Lydia had recognized as an old pop music song that Jackson had guiltily admitted to learning on the violin just to impress a girl. He played it three times, once with her singing along, and once with many other shouting along to it. Halfway through, Stiles realized how long it had been since he’d heard real music or sung an actual song from start to finish, rather than humming bits and pieces of long-forgotten tunes when they got stuck in his head.

            When Jackson ran out of new songs to play, he returned the violin to the beaming old woman. It was getting light out, though the camp appeared to have no intention of packing up to move. It occurred to Stiles that with vampire companions unable to travel during the daylight hours, perhaps they were actually bedding down rather than getting ready to leave.

            “Are we keeping you up?” Stiles asked the closest person, a young human man probably close to Stiles’ own age. He was pretty sure he’d heard the name _Thomas_ thrown at him, but not sure enough to actually use it to address him.

            “Nah,” he replied. “You’re exciting for sure, but the first day of a stop is always like this.”

            “The first day…?” Stiles asked. “You stay put for more than one night- I mean, more than one day?”

            “Sure,” Thomas said, giving him a confused look. Then it cleared, and he smiled. “Oh right, no vamps for you folks. Tsuru and Clem and the others have to feed once in a while, and rather than doing it all random, they do it together. We all stop and set up a camp for it, so the donators can come down from the high safely for a couple days afterward.”

            That drew Stiles up short. “The high?” he said dubiously.

            Thomas grinned. “Well, sure. Think like how mosquitoes kinda numb you up when they bite, so you don’t notice? Vamps do it too, ‘cept it’s way more of a trip, feels way better, and it heals the wound after. That’s how they got away unnoticed for so long before all this end of the world stuff, you know? Nip someone during sex and by the time it’s all over, there’s no mark left. Just a good memory.”

            “Wow,” Stiles said, aware that his eyes were too wide. He had not given vampires nearly enough thought in his short life. “So you just… wander around with them and… do that?”

            With a laugh, Thomas shook his head. “Uh, kind of, yeah! We were wandering, for a while, but we’re on our way north for the summer. There’s been some talk of finding a place to settle though, you know? Permanent kind of. Never seen a camp that would take vampires, but, like, we were thinking maybe we’d just make one, you know? Some of the people here are getting too old to travel around all the time. Like Nancy. Hey Nancy!” he shouted, and the old woman on the fiddle turned to look at him mid-note. “You gonna settle down up north, right?”

            “You bet your sweet young ass I am, boy!” she shouted back, and the group dissolved into giggles. She pointed at Stiles then. “Son, you ever heard wolfsong?”

            Stiles shook his head, fairly certain that she didn’t mean how the wolves all howled together on the full moon.

            “Well if your pack don’t mind helping out, you’re gonna then! Patty! Patricia, where- there you are, come here,” Nancy said, beckoning over a young girl. “And where’s Devon, get- yes, Devon, come on, listen.”

            She dropped her voice to address the two teenagers who had joined them; the girl could not have been older than thirteen or fourteen, the boy closer to Stiles’ age. Around him, the pack had straightened up, taking their beta forms or staying as wolves if they were. After a few minutes, she glanced over at the wolves, seemed to like what she saw, and picked up her instrument. The others who had played with her all morning lifted theirs as well, awaiting her lead.

            The notes, when she began to play, were fast and upbeat, at the perfect tempo for dancing, and the group as a whole hopped to their feet when they heard it. For a few chords the music just played, long enough to give everyone a chance to get to their feet, before the boy, Devon, opened his mouth to sing.

            Stiles’ breath went soft in his chest at the first few words, in no language he recognized. He sang in perfect counterpoint to the music, slower but winding around the notes. Patricia added her high, clear voice to the mix, and when she did, so too did the wolves add their long, low howls, and the song went from amazing to ethereal.

            It felt like running across open fields on all fours, like leaping into the sky and missing the ground. It felt like auroras weaving over mountaintops and the endless eternity of the ocean spread out at his feet in waves and the small, tight comfort of being piled together with a group of warm, furry bodies, heartbeats in every direction. It felt like _magic_ , and he would not have been surprised at all if there was actual magic being cast by the musicians and singers alike.

            He shivered, eyes closing as he let the music just wash through him, let the howls of the pack wrap around him for a few timeless breaths.

            Then it was over, and the dancers around the bonfire were cheering and whooping and laughing as they applauded the performance. Nancy beamed at them, breathing a little hard from playing so fiercely, and she pointed the tip of her bow at Derek.

            “Knew it, I knew you were a born wolf,” she accused lightly, grin still splitting her face. “You have the look. I wish you had the time to stay and teach me your line’s song.”

            Derek dipped his head a little, looking chagrined.

            “We appreciate the sentiment,” Laura said for him. “But we should probably be on our way soon. We are trying to get south, to Shreveport. Do you know of it?”

            “Magetown,” Nancy and Thomas said together, then smiled. Nancy continued on alone. “You’re taking your human down to train, I assume? Learn a little magic?”

            “Something like that,” Stiles said with a chuckle. He wanted to learn a _lot_ of magic, if he could. “Where are you heading? To settle down?”

            Nancy gave a little shrug as the music started up again, softer and slower and clearly preparing to wind down for the day. “I think we’re headed north to Denver, or maybe farther to Cheyenne.”

            “Don’t go to Cheyenne,” Stiles said quickly. He remembered the bones and bodies everywhere, the eerie silence of the city that lacked even wildlife. “Something happened there. Something _bad_. We had to pass by it a while back, and it… there’s nothing alive there. Like, _nothing_ alive.”

            “Ah,” she said quietly. “I’ll tell Tsuru you said so, and maybe we will check Denver first then. Head south to Colorado Springs instead, near where the military used to be. They’re probably not there anymore. They aren’t, mostly.”

            Stiles opened his mouth and then hesitated, glancing at first to Lydia, and then Laura and Derek. They all just looked back curiously, no amount of help at all. When he turned back to Nancy, she wore an expectant look, but waited for him.

            “We just… came from the north, actually,” he said carefully, hoping that if the others had protests about what he would say, they would speak up. “There’s a community up there, just north of North Platte, Nebraska. If you go straight north to 80 and take it west to 83 north, you can’t miss it, but it… it’s mixed. Or at least, it could be.”

            Her brow furrowed. “How do you mean? You’re saying humans and supers together up there?”

            He nodded. “Well, it’s humans, right now,” he amended. “Hunters, but they saved our lives, and we helped them out. I think they’d be open to having you there, if you wanted to help them build their community. Or even just establish them as a trade partner, if you settle up north.”

            “Hunters,” Nancy said flatly.

            “I know,” Stiles said, recognizing the tone. He wouldn’t have believed himself two months ago. “But look, a little over a month ago, I was a hunter, too.” He didn’t miss the way she recoiled slightly from him, and though it hurt, he accepted it. He had done wrongs in the past, and this was the price. “Then I met Derek and the others, and they showed me things could be different, and I’m trying to follow that wherever it takes me. They showed the Roadhouse hunters, too.”

            “Stiles,” Laura said warningly. He knew he was treading thin ice, talking about this, but he wanted to try.

            “I know,” he said softly, looking up to meet Nancy’s eyes. “It’s kind of a leap, to trust the word of a stranger when there’s so much that can hurt us in the world. I know that. But you guys here… you’re a group of humans and supers that get along. I’m a human living in a group of supers. Up there, at the Roadhouse, they’re taking care of a baby chimera now- they’re a group of humans with a super living among them. I just think that maybe those are the kind of steps we gotta take to start fixing things. Someone’s gotta start trusting.”

            “You don’t even know if they still have that cub,” Laura said. “It was a good gesture, and maybe they meant well, but they’re humans, and hunters.” She shook her head, trading a look with Nancy. “There’s a better chance that they went right back to the way things were before they saw us.”

            Stiles felt his shoulders drop against his will, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.”

            Nancy gave him a gentle smile. “Hey,” she said, drawing his attention back up. “I’ll tell Tsuru what you told me. It can be her decision. We may pass close enough anyway to send someone to check it out- if nothing else, that’s the benefit of traveling with humans in the group. We can test the waters of most settlements without getting into too much trouble, right? That’s what you did for your pack today.”

            At that, Stiles brightened a little. “I did.” He let out a huff of laughter. “Nice to be useful, for once.”

            Nancy looked down at Derek, pressed into Stiles’ leg, and he met her gaze right back. “I think you’re a little more needed than you may realize,” she told him.

 

* * *

 

            Six days later, Stiles fell into a river.

            Or more accurately, he startled so hard he lost his footing and slid without grace into the freezing shallows.

            The pack had stopped alongside a shallow riverbed to rest and Stiles had fetched out the backpack full of water bottles to refill them. He had found a nice group of rocks that would keep his feet from getting wet while he crouched by the bank, and set about his task. Behind him, the pack murmured quietly amongst itself about directions and when they should start heading east. Laura wanted to scavenge in Wichita, which meant keeping their southward heading, but Erica and Boyd argued it made more sense to stick to the smaller towns, off the main roads.

            Six years and change into the apocalypse, and Stiles didn’t think it really mattered where they scavenged. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t spoiled or been picked over. Even canned goods had started to be a game of Russian roulette to open. Personally he thought Laura had a point- when the apocalypse hit, a lot of people retreated from the cities, where things got dangerous as the larger populations turned on themselves. Sure, there was a chance that they’d run across something that had somehow gotten missed in the confusion, a gas station or a house that no one had yet come across, but it was not a _good_ chance.

            On the other hand, it didn’t really matter to him which way they went. Half the reason they were arguing about it was just for something to talk about, so he didn’t bother interrupting. Instead, he dunked another bottle into the freezing water and watched the bubbles scatter the softly churning surface.

            That was how it caught his eye.

            A small, perfect sphere of white sitting on the bottom of the riverbed, nestled in a divot of pebbles and debris. Stiles froze, letting the water course over his hand as he stared, trying to determine what it was and whether or not he could reach it from his precarious perch. It wasn’t very far.

            He pulled the bottle from the river and capped it, lobbing it gently onto the small pile he’d been making, and then turned back to see if the stone was still there. It was, pure and shining and beautiful, like some kind of freshwater pearl. Carefully, he scooted himself as close to the edge of the water as he could get, and reached out a hand.

            Beneath the water, one of the river pebbles cracked to reveal a vibrantly green eye, the black strike through the middle of it fixed intently upon Stiles.

            He yelped at the sudden appearance, and lost his footing. Even as he slid sideways, flailing and shouting, into the river, the riverbed _moved_. The river bottom shifted and flowed and began to take the shape of a dragon, long and sinuous, pebbles for scales and weeds for hair and waterlogged branches for antlers.

            The pack was on its feet in an instant as Stiles splashed into a facsimile of upright and began to scramble for the dubious safety of shore. Behind him, the dragon remained in place, looking over them.

            “Wol…vessss…” it said, voice like the sound of a waterfall against rocks. “M…ore…. wol…vesss… ssssteal… eggssss…”

            Derek kept his eyes and head down, his arms spread and his hands palm down. The rest of the pack had followed suit, albeit Jackson and Lydia more confusedly than the others. Stiles remained where he was, just barely out of the water and shivering to his core, glad to be forgotten in favor of the werewolves.

            “We did not steal your eggs, Guardian,” Derek said softly. “We seek only to rest by your waters, and to replenish our own.”

            The river dragon shifted, algae-green eyes sticking upon the human at its feet. Its front claws, each curved and as long as Stiles’ index finger, lay only scant inches from his legs. He swallowed, and kept his eyes turned downward like the others. It brought its blocky head down, long whiskers like tendrils of algae trailing off its face, and examined him.

            “Hu…man…. Sssssteal…” it rasped, claws flexing into the mud.

            “No,” Stiles assured it quickly. “I saw your egg, and I didn’t know what it was. I-“ He stalled out, mind racing over what Derek had said, and how formal it had been. “I sought only to discover its nature, not to take it for my own.”

            This, it considered for a few long, anxious moments, before straightening and looking over its shoulder, where its tail still curled around the pearly egg at the bottom of the river. It gave a great, shuddering shiver before it turned back to them. “Why… passss….”

            “We travel south, the same as your river,” Derek said smoothly. “We seek others of our kind.”

            “Wol….vesss… yesss…” it said slowly, fidgeting anxiously again. “Wol…vess…. Passss… here… sssoon…. be…fore….”

            “Other wolves?” Derek asked carefully. “Not these wolves?”

            “Yesss…. try… sssteal…. eggssss…” The river dragon hissed, crackly and angry. “Not… sssteal… my… egg…” It drew itself up to its full height, rising from the water. “Kill…. Naugh…ty…. wol…vess….”

            Stiles’ stomach dipped at the declaration. “These are good wolves,” he said quickly. “And a good human. Let me show you?” He didn’t dare get up until it gave permission.

            Again its neck curved to bring its head level with Stiles, and he had the passing, detached thought that it could probably consume him entirely in half a dozen bites. “Yesss….” it said after a moment of study, and Stiles took that as good enough, scrambling to his feet and making a break for the cart.

            “What are you doing?” Lydia hissed, though she made no move to stop him.

            “They like presents, and shiny things,” Stiles whispered back, hauling his pack to the top and rooting around in the side pocket. He heard the shift and drip of the dragon as he found his prizes, letting them clink pleasantly together before he pulled them free. He held them on his palm for Lydia to see, and her eyes lit up in approval.

            He gave her a look that clearly said _wish me luck_ , and then he crossed slowly back over to the dragon, the treasures on display in his hands. Though he didn’t look directly at the dragon, he saw when he had its interest. He didn’t know a lot about these particular dragons, but he had met a water dragon on the west coast in the early days that had been appeased by a gift of shiny objects. The two .50 caliber bullet shells he had found a few days prior were not exactly treasure, but they were going to have to do.

            “What… thisss…” it asked, drawing back a little.

            “A gift,” Stiles answered, extending his arms in offering.

            It leaned closer, craning its neck to see, and then it settled back on its haunches. “Cupsss…” it concluded.

            Stiles wasn’t about to argue semantics, especially not when the dragon gave a shake of its body and began to shrink, dropping pebbles and weeds and debris to the shore. Gold began to shine through the mud, silver and green and red accents streaking across new scales, until what stood before them was an entirely different creature. Stiles blinked, dumbfounded.

            “Cups!” it insisted, giving a full-body squiggle and then ferret-bouncing sideways over to him, hardly the size of a large dog. It snatched the bullet casings from his stunned hands, and wobbled back over to the river, where it toppled in as though it had tripped, splashing water everywhere.

            “What just… _happened_?” Stiles asked, turning to give the wolves a flabbergasted look.

            Laura burst out laughing, followed quickly by Erica and Isaac, and they began to gather their belongings to leave. Derek’s eyes were shining with mirth, but he just shook his head. “You won its approval,” he said. “They’re silly creatures when they aren’t being threatened. Good thinking.”

            Stiles looked back to the river, where the little dragon was laid out with its elbows on a large rock, full concentration on holding one of its new ‘cups’ so that it could take a very serious sip from it. He sighed. The apocalypse was not going at all how he had expected.

 

* * *

 

            “It’s a _swamp_ ,” Lydia said, swatting at another insect out for her blood. It should have still been too cold for them, and yet they were everywhere. “Even the _word_ is disgusting. We should go around it.”

            “I’m not sure there _is_ an around it,” Peter said, peering into the thick, goopy forest. “This wasn’t here two years ago. Something’s moved in.”

            “Something?” Isaac asked. “Like, something nice that will feed us and magically teleport us where we want to go?”

            Peter snorted and didn’t dignify that with a response. Boyd rolled his eyes, and pressed one foot into the soft, peat moss that ended abruptly in front of him. “The cart won’t go through this,” he declared. “So we leave it and travel with packs, or we find a different way.”

            “It can’t go on forever,” Stiles pointed out, then held up his hands in surrender when all of the wolves _and_ Lydia gave him the exact same _are we in the same apocalypse?_ face. “It was just a suggestion!”

            “It probably doesn’t go on forever,” Laura said reasonably. “But it can go on long enough to cause a huge delay.”

            “Got a hot date?” Stiles asked, then straightened a little at the bold tease. He had certainly gotten closer to the pack over the last three weeks, but he hadn’t thought he was _that_ comfortable yet. “Sorry.”

            She waved him off. “No, you’re right. We don’t really have anything but time. It doesn’t matter to me which way we go.”

            “Erica? Jackson?” Derek asked, looking at the two of them. Stiles felt an odd little flutter of pride to hear Jackson unquestionably included as a part of Derek’s pack now.

            “I say we get the packs out, and just go through,” Erica said. “If there’s really a big camp on the other side, then we can just build another cart, right? Or come back for it when we leave.”

            Derek turned to Jackson, who was just staring into the forest like it held the answers to the universe. Stiles followed his line of sight, but it all just looked like boggy woodlands to him, gnarly trees covered in moss drapes, their roots covered in peat and too-clear water. The air had a foggy sort of quality that took away from the reality of the vision, like looking through an old mirror and not quite seeing the right reflection. Stiles looked back in question, trading an uncertain look with Derek over their silent companion.

            “We have to go around,” Jackson said quietly, still staring “It’s a troll bog.”

            Almost as though planned, the entire pack turned to look out into the woods, mouths open in horror. Lydia looked at Stiles, who just shrugged. He was pretty sure that they could handle a troll, unless it was very fast or very deadly, and his mental image of what a troll should be did not include either of those things.

            “I don’t uh… I don’t understand,” he said carefully.

            Peter sighed. “I should have seen it. Listen, Stiles.”

            “I’m listening,” Stiles told him, confused.

            “No, _listen_ ,” Peter said, swirling a finger to indicate their surroundings. “What do you hear?”

            Stiles hesitated, and then turned his focus to the area. He could hear birds from behind them, and the soft flutter of wind through the sparse, leafless trees leading up to the bog. But, he realized, brow furrowing, no noise came _out_ of the bog. Where the water rippled softly against the roots of some of the trees it made no sound. The wind made no sound as it stirred through the mossy branches, and no animal noises at all reached them.

            “Nothing,” Stiles breathed.

            “Exactly,” Jackson said, looking ill. “Nothing comes out of a troll bog. Not even sound. Once you go in, you can’t turn around and come out again. You can’t just walk til you reach the other side. The bog loops, ‘round and ‘round, and no path is ever the same twice. You can’t mark your way. That’s- that’s how I lost my parents.”

            “But you got out?” Stiles asked. He had known Jackson’s parents were dead, but in this world, it was often better not to ask how.

            Jackson finally tore his gaze away from the bog. “No,” he said, sounding confused. “I didn’t get out. I woke up and the whole bog was just gone. Like it packed up and left.”

            “Someone killed the troll,” Peter said. “But we could spend years in there and never find it, and even if we found it, there’s no good in killing a creature like that. They’re guardians, not monsters. There’s a good chance this one is here by invitation, maybe by the casters we’re seeking, to keep people away. There might be a safe passageway, but it’s just as likely that the only safe way through is accompanied by the troll. And we also don’t know where the troll is.”

            “We could call it to us,” Laura suggested. “Guardians always have a way to be summoned.”

            “It usually involves knowing their name,” Peter said dryly.

            “Not always,” Lydia said quietly, and everyone turned to her. She stood up a little straighter, and tipped her chin up. “I spent a lot of time in the library, taking everyone’s stories down. You remember Anna Perry? She knew a bunch of spells and rituals. There was one to summon a forest spirit. You just need blood, fire, quartz, and something which belongs to the spirit. In this case, I think you’ve got an entire forest to choose from.”

            “We don’t have any quartz,” Stiles said.

            Lydia rolled her eyes. “There’s a stream like an hour behind us, and quartz is pretty much the most common semi-precious stone. Jackson and I can probably go find some if you want to wait here.”

            “Stop,” Derek said, as she took a step away from them. She stopped as if he had the same control over her that he had over the rest of the betas. “It doesn’t matter if we get the quartz or not. To get a piece of the troll’s forest, we would have to enter it.”

            “Where did you think we were gonna call it from?” Lydia asked. “I doubt it would hear us out here, anyway.”

            Derek stared at her, a little confused. He looked around at the rest of the pack, who all seemed just as ready to go along with the plan. “And none of you see any problem with this?”

            Stiles shifted to get Derek’s attention, and then offered up a smile. “It makes sense, kind of,” he said. “We’re pretty close to where we’re heading, and Peter’s right. It’s probably guarding the place we want to go. We could spend the next few months walking the perimeter looking for the one possible way in without the troll, but it might not even exist. Going in might be our only choice if we want to reach the rune casters.”

            Derek remained strung taut for several more slow breaths, and then the tension bled from him, and he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But Lydia stays here. Isaac, Jackson, and Erica, head back to the last stream we crossed and see if you can find a piece of quartz to use. We’ll set up camp, and go in tomorrow morning, when we’re freshly rested.”

            The three obeyed without argument, shifting into their beta forms and taking off into the woods at top speed. Where it might have been an hour for Stiles or Lydia to even get there at all, the wolves returned in little over an hour with four different pieces of quartz for Lydia to choose from. She picked a pebble rubbed smooth in the water, and Stiles stashed the other three pieces in his pack in case they needed them later.

            The rest of the night passed without event. Stiles was getting used to the pack turning into a pile of warm fur between whatever fire they could make and the admittedly beaten-up wheels of the cart. At some point in the last two weeks, he had given up attempting to sleep leaned up against just one wolf, and let them crowd in around him and Lydia. Jackson still slept with his head in her lap, and no one argued, but Stiles tended to find himself with different arrangements nightly. More often than not, he fell asleep with one ear against Derek’s ribs, listening to the too-fast beat of his heart.

            When everyone had settled, Peter began to instruct them softly on how to interact with a forest guardian, and how that might translate into interacting with a bog troll. Stiles listened to some of it, but exhaustion clawed at him before Peter had gotten beyond the basic greeting.

            He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he woke with a start before the sun had begun its climb through the sky. Peter was up already, stamping out the last embers of the fire, and didn’t greet him with so much as a look when he wriggled away from the rest of the wolves to go relieve himself.

            By the time he returned, the others were sleepily nosing around, yawning and bumbling into one another in the pre-dawn light. Stiles stood a few yards away just watching, warm and fuzzy on the inside as he watched Derek change and dress alongside of Peter. The others stayed as wolves, fight-or-flight ready.

            Once everything was packed, Lydia clutching her bowl of ingredients and Laura harnessed to the cart, they steeled themselves to enter. Jackson insisted that they all be touching when they crossed the threshold, so they formed a contiguous line, the wolves holding tails in mouths and the human forms holding hands or curling fingers into fur. Derek took the lead with Peter right behind him, and they stepped across the border.

            The shift happened the same way as turning the dial on a car speaker from left to right, all the sound on one side switching completely to the other as Stiles stepped over the line on the ground. Suddenly the chilly winter wind no longer rattled empty trees- it smoothed over moss covered ones, ghosting along over the dried rushes at their feet. His feet sank into the moss with soft squelches, and the wildlife here sounded different, flat and dull.

            Beyond that, Stiles didn’t feel any different. He could still see the clearing where they had come from, but it felt disconnected, and he had a feeling that if he tried to walk to it, he would find himself heading deeper into the murky forest. They all released their holds upon one another, and Lydia knelt on the driest piece of land she could find.

            “Derek, I need some of the moss from one of the trees,” she instructed. “Stiles, come here. It’s gotta be your blood.”

            While Derek fetched a bundle of moss, Stiles crossed over to Lydia and crouched in front of her, baring his arm. She accepted the moss, placing it into the plastic bowl along with the quartz. She pulled the small knife she carried and pried it open. Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect, but she simply took his hand in hers and nicked the edge of his wrist just enough to drip a few drops onto the moss and the stone.

            He pressed his thumb over the nick while she repeated the spell three times, and then set the whole thing on fire with Jo’s lighter. It smelled _awful_ , but it burned out almost as soon as it was lit, leaving only ash and stone in its wake.

            Stiles got as far as asking “How long-?” before one of the trees a dozen yards into the forest uprooted itself and began to stomp its way over to them. He wondered if it had been there all along, or if he had missed its arrival somehow, because he was fairly certain he should have noticed a giant living tree. He scrambled to his feet as the rest of the pack went on high alert, but they didn’t move into positions for attack.

            Instead, each of the wolves stepped forward with their left front paw, tucked their right to their chest, and turned the gesture into a bow. Stiles realized that the tree was not a tree at all, but a moss-covered troll nearly twelve feet tall, with long limbs and a heavy set body that made it look like a particularly gnarled tree trunk. It was colored the same, all but the eyes, which stood out as a bright, golden yellow.

            “You trespass in my domain, wolf,” it rumbled, trailing to a stop only a couple of yards from Derek. If it lashed out with one of its long arms, it could hit him.

            “Tolka Janah, Guardian,” Derek said softly, placing his left foot forward and tucking his hands to his chest as he swept back a bow reminiscent of the ones the other wolves had taken. “We trespass only to seek safe passage through your domain.”

            It regarded him with a measured sort of peace, scraggly pupils tumbling slowly over the gathered. Its gaze settled upon Stiles, who remained frozen in his own, human form of bow despite that he could feel himself trembling. Peter had warned him not to falter, not to show any weakening of his resolve. He wondered if the troll could hear how hard his heart was hammering.

            “This one is human.” Its voice reminded Stiles of stones rattling in a metal barrel, shivering across his nerves.

            “On the honor of my ancestors, he shall cause no harm,” Derek replied instantly, unmoving. “His destination is ours.”

            The troll watched Stiles for another long moment, simply breathing and possibly thinking, before the trees around them began to stir. Moss and dead leaves and branches rustled together, though no breeze ran through them, the air dead and still and heavy all around them. Slowly, the troll turned its face upward, head cocked just-so, listening to the motion. Finally, it dropped its gaze back to the group.

            “They believe you,” it said carefully. “What of the banshee?”

            “She travels with us of her own free will,” Derek responded. “Her destination is ours.”

            Again the troll observed, and again the trees gave a soft rustle of agreement. “They believe you,” it said. “What need have you to cross my domain?”

            “We seek to find those who cast rune magic, that our human may learn their ways and so better protect himself and others, my family included,” Derek said. “He seeks only to learn.”

            “And what do you seek?” the troll asked, unmoved.

            Derek swallowed and glanced over at Stiles for a moment. “I… seek his happiness, that it shall become the happiness of my family, too.”

            This the troll considered for many long minutes, long enough that Stiles wasn’t sure it hadn’t just grown roots and settled back into guardianship of the bog. He willed himself to hold still, to hold his bow, to await the judgment of this creature. He was not so strong-willed that he did not sag with relief when next it spoke.

            “You speak truth,” it said. “Tolko Hana, Wolf. The forest welcomes you and your family. All may pass safely. I will take you where you seek to go.”

            The group visibly relaxed as the troll turned from them and began to shamble away into the forest. Beneath their feet, the ground solidified, a meandering path appearing from nothing. Stiles traded a look with Lydia and then Peter and Derek, jumped when Laura heaved herself forward against the cart’s harness. It creaked, gave a tight groan, and then began to roll easily along the new pathway.

            Derek shared one more uneasy look with Stiles before jogging to catch up to the front of the group. Stiles remained where he was until the others had passed so he could bring up the rear. Taking one last, long look at the silenced world beyond the bog’s border, he turned and followed the pack into the unknown.

            Fortunately or unfortunately, the unknown consisted mostly of plodding along behind the troll through an ever-constant landscape of trees and rushes and swamp. Everything began to look the same after the first hour, and Stiles kept seeing things moving out in the forest. Or at least, he thought he did, which unnerved him more. At least the insects didn’t bother them anymore, though whether it was because they didn’t live inside the bog or because the troll’s presence protected the group, Stiles wasn’t sure.

            Isaac spent the time ranging from the front of the group at Derek’s side to weaving back to check on Stiles. Boyd and Erica stayed to either side of the cart, and Peter trudged along at Laura’s side. Jackson and Lydia stuck together still, just behind Derek, though they dropped back to walk with Stiles after the first couple of hours.

            Stiles began to understand what Jackson meant about getting lost in this kind of place. Without the troll leading them, without the constantly spawning and disappearing path they traveled, Stiles would have lost his way as soon as he lost sight of the outside. He liked to think that he was good at navigating in strange forests, as he had spent the majority of the past few years out on patrols. But this was nothing like that.

            “Are you okay?” he asked Jackson, just to break the silence. The rest of the group jumped at the foreign noise. Jackson just gave him a look, and slipped away from them, the fur over his shoulders standing on end. Not okay, then, Stiles figured. It had to be rough to be back in a place like this. He made a mental note to try to talk to him again, once they had settled.

            “Don’t even think about it,” Lydia said, like she could read his mind. “You’ve got that look on your face like you want to try to talk about his feelings. Don’t.”

            Stiles sighed. Living in one another’s pockets for so long apparently had side effects. “Fine,” he agreed. “But it’s bothering him.”

            “It won’t be, once we’re out again,” Lydia told him primly. “And he won’t appreciate you nosing around in it then.”

            He looked over at her, and then sighed. On the one hand, she knew Jackson better. On the other hand, he knew what it felt like to lose a parent. Lydia had gotten separated from her family early in the apocalypse, but he knew that she still had the hope that they were out in the world somewhere still. He knew that she still believed they were alive, even if she had no proof of that at all.

            Jackson knew better. Jackson had probably watched it happen, and Stiles had at least some perspective on what that did to a person. He might not always _like_ Jackson, might not always get along great with him, but the three of them were all they had left of _home_. That still had worth to Stiles.

            Not enough to argue with Lydia, however, so he let it drop and she didn’t press further. Eventually, Jackson dropped back to them again, traveling so close to Lydia his fur brushed against her. Stiles began to count the closest tree trunks as they passed, and lost count somewhere after three hundred when he nearly walked face first into the stopped cart.

            When he looked forward, he saw why they had halted. Nestled in the middle of the swamp as though it belonged there sat a huge, sprawling camp. More of a town, if Stiles was honest with himself- some of the buildings were permanent structures, the remains of a small town. It was in no way the city he had expected; it looked more like it had once been a neighborhood along the outskirts maybe. The troll stood at the front of the group, facing them once again.

            “Thank you,” Derek told it, performing a bow that the rest of the pack echoed swiftly.

            “Sol janah, wolf,” the troll said slowly. “May your journeys be swift.”

            “Sol hana, Guardian,” Derek replied. “May your home be safe.”

            The troll dipped its thick head in acknowledgement of the blessing, and then shambled off into the bog. Stiles watched it disappear, but had no better grasp on how it traveled to and from anywhere without notice than he did when it first appeared. One moment it was there, moving, and the next there were only trees where it had been.

            A very human voice drew his attention back to the settlement. A man walked toward them, one arm up in greeting, and Derek waved back without hesitation. Stiles skirted the wagon to come closer, just in case they needed a human at the front to greet the other humans. It didn’t seem necessary, if the wide smile on the caster was any indication.

            “Welcome!” he said loudly, looking over the group. “Werewolves?”

            “Not all,” Derek said coolly, motioning to Stiles, who slipped up to his side. “My name is Derek Hale, alpha of the Hale pack. This is Stiles.”

            “I’m their human,” Stiles joked, sticking his hand out to shake. “We heard that there were rune casters here willing to teach others. We’ve come a long way to find out if that’s true.”

            The man’s smile softened, and he took Stiles’ hand in his. The fabric of his loose shirt rode up with the motion, revealing a tapestry of rune tattoos. “My name is Alan Deaton,” the man said, “And I have some very good news for you, Stiles.”

            Something within Stiles relaxed. They had made it.

 

* * *

 

            _I don’t even know where to begin writing about the past three days. Our banshee summoned a Guardian troll using a river stone, blood magic, and a lighter given to us by a Hunter. We then crossed the troll’s bog without incident, and ended up in a settlement full of polite, kind,_ human _magic users who are completely unafraid of us._

_I wonder if this is how Alice felt?_

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 2 | Chapter 12**

( _Early March_ )

 

 

            _We are safe here. Truly._

_I cannot express how novel a feeling that is._

_Without the constant need to look over my shoulder, I have had too much time to look at other things. At other people. One other person._

 

* * *

 

            “Again,” Deaton told Stiles, watching his nimble fingers trace the rune upon his left forearm. “You can do this.”

            Stiles scowled, but kept his mind focused on tracing the fresh tattoo on his forearm. It was painful still, but he supposed that was the point. He had spent the last week listening to Deaton’s teachings about rune magic, everything from what it looked like to how to cast it. He had been itching to get his first rune inked into his skin by one of the other casters, and finally, _finally_ , a few hours ago Deaton had approved him to get a simple healing rune.

            “The healing rune is the first any caster gets,” Deaton had told him at the start of his lessons, slow and serious. “We don’t have access to painkillers or fine tuned equipment anymore, you understand. This rune will be how you heal yourself from getting the runes.”

            Green light leapt to the surface of his skin in the wake of his finger, now, eager and pliant to his will in a way it had not been only days ago. Deaton, along with several of the other runecasters, had helped Stiles learn to draw upon the world magic available to humans. They had taught him how to wrap his will around the dangling threads of power and weave them over his skin by tracing his fingers in the patterns of various runes.

            Drawing them had come easily. _Casting_ them was proving to be a different story. In order to actually use a rune spell, even on themselves, casters must first trace the rune, imbuing it with magic, and then _lift_ the rune from their skin. Only once it was free could it be used, and only if it was formed with the correct intentions would it actually work.

            Intention, Deaton had taught him, was the biggest factor in casting rune magic. A single rune could cast dozens of different spells, depending on the intent of the caster during the trace. All he needed this one to do, currently, was ease the angry, red inflammation around the fresh tattoo site on his arm.

            When he pulled his fingers away from his skin, the light came with it, retaining the shape of the rune. He held it gently on his fingertips, heart hammering in his chest with excitement. His first real rune. He had never gotten one to hold its shape off his skin and he feared if he so much as breathed too hard, it would dissipate.

            He glanced up, apprehensive about taking the next step so quickly, but Deaton simply smiled. The little _go ahead_ nod was the only encouragement Stiles would get. Now he would have to use his new rune, which required the second biggest factor in rune casting- will. Where intention told the rune how to form and what path it would take when used, will shoved it down that path and activated the cast.

            He could do this, he told himself. Taking a slow breath, Stiles spread his fingers apart slightly, the way Deaton had shown him. The rune’s size changed to follow the motion, until it could cover the entire patch of inflamed skin. Carefully, Stiles pressed the rune to his forearm, pouring his will into the motion.

            _Heal_.

            Cool, soothing numbness seeped into his skin where the rune touched. The light blurred out of shape and dissipated slowly, and when it was gone, Stiles was pleased to note that the tattoo site looked healthy and clean once more. He allowed himself to relax, tension leaching from his frame, too wired to do anything more than let out a breathy, trembling laugh.

            He had done it. He had cast his first spell.

 

* * *

 

            At the very outskirt of New Hope, just at the edge of the bog, lay the library. If there had been a plaque or a sign to indicate what library it had been from the old world, those things were long gone. Now, the runecasters had repurposed it mainly to archive their teachings and allow for quiet study when new casters arrived. Currently, that meant just Stiles, which meant he either found himself the sole focus of all the experienced casters or completely alone to study the truly impressive amount of knowledge being dumped upon him daily.

            It had been only a few days since their arrival, and already Stiles felt like his brain had eaten a thanksgiving dinner full of runes and rules. Lydia learned like she was starving- she had a knack for remembering everything she read or heard, a fact Stiles both admired and found useful while trying to keep up. He had dragged her along to the library after grabbing lunch for both of them and a box of flashcards one of the other casters had made a couple of years ago for newbies.

            Lydia held up another well-worn card, the dark black rune faded to a brownish-grey, and gave Stiles an expectant look. The rune was one of the new ones from the day, and Stiles scraped at his memory to find which it was. When he drew a blank, he switched instead to remembering where it was supposed to go, and the answer clicked.

            “Travel,” he said, touching his wrist. “Riding, movement, dancing… relocation.” There were other uses for the _raido_ rune, dozens of ways its meaning could be interpreted to do what Stiles wished. “It usually has to be combined with another rune to be useful.”

            Nodding, Lydia shuffled the index card back into her stack. “What other runes? Name… three,” she said.

            Stiles blew out a breath and started going through the runes he had learned so far, and all of their various meanings. “Uruz. Fast traveling. Uhm… Cen. Moving light, or maybe moving fire. And maybe Perth? Relocation of a hidden object, to bring it to the caster.”

            She made a vaguely impressed face, and pulled another card from the stack. “You’re learning these pretty quickly, and putting them together in… well, interesting ways.”

            He gave her a soft smile, trying to keep from showing the sympathy he felt, knowing it would not be welcome. “I wish you could cast,” he told her instead. Unfortunately for both of them, rune magic could only be used by humans. “It would be more fun. But you’d probably kick my ass in a duel.”

            Lydia snorted. “I don’t need magic to do that,” she told him, and held up the next card.

 

* * *

 

            On the edge of the grey dawn hours a few days later, the pack had stumbled its way out of the bog and onto the lawn, hides dusty with their moonlit run. Stiles had made sure there was water nearby, and they all drank from it deeply before sprawling on the grass and practically passing out without a word.

            Hours later, Derek had roused first, just enough to lift his head. Stiles glanced over from where he was using Derek’s belly as a pillow, a book full of runes on his chest. Derek didn’t seem to mind, just put his head back on the ground and closed his eyes. Stiles knew it would be a couple of hours yet before they all woke for real, and that he would have to leave to fetch them food before that. For now, though, Derek was warm, the steady thrum of his heart under Stiles’ head oddly comforting.

            The next time Derek stirred, noon had come and gone. Stiles had gotten up to fetch lunch for himself, and hauled back a basket laden with thick biscuits, jerky, and nuts for the wolves. He passed one to Derek, who struggled sluggishly into his beta shift to use his hands and voice as he sat.

            “Good run?” Stiles asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the others yet.

            Derek’s nose twitched and he covered a yawn before answering. “Another pack runs the bog,” he said, slow and troubled. “We searched, but the bog wouldn’t let us near them.”

            Stiles let that sit between them for a minute, his gaze going straight through the crudely bound book in his hand. The runecasters had put it together themselves, like they did for most things they wanted or needed. “Can you ask the troll?” he wondered aloud. “Or have Alan ask it, since it’s protecting their camp for them?”

            The silence stretched on so long Stiles thought maybe he would not get an answer, but then Derek shifted uncomfortably. “No. I believe the others attempted to steal the river dragon’s eggs. They’re not lost- they’re trapped.”

            A chill swept through Stiles at the words, gone as quickly as it arrived. He looked out toward the bog, unnaturally still despite the soft breeze, and gave a small shake of his head. “So they’re what?” he asked, hushed, as if the bog might hear him and come for him next. “Being punished?”

            Derek glanced over to Stiles with alpha-red eyes, gaze flicking over him as though assessing him. “No,” he finally said. “The world is not a black and white picture, but that’s what the Guardian sees. It was over for them the moment they threatened the well-being of another super.”

            “You killed a Grim,” Stiles said softly. “And a chimera. A mother.”

            Derek’s gaze dropped away again. “Yes,” he agreed.

            If there was anything else he meant to say, Derek kept his mouth shut on the words. Stiles waited for a bit, but when nothing else came, he let himself relax into Derek’s side a little and Derek did not stop him. Part of Stiles wanted to pick up his book and keep memorizing runes, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the eerie forest.

            “Do you think that they… that they’ll die in there?” he asked, barely a breath.

            Derek did not answer, and Stiles did not ask again.

 

* * *

 

            As it turned out, casting runes away from himself took way more concentration and energy than Stiles had expected.

            For almost three weeks, he had been getting small, black runes etched into his skin with ink and healing the aftermath himself. He had spent almost every waking minute closed into a room with Deaton, or Alara, or Ruth, or Warren, or any number of other runecasters that called New Hope their home, learning the names and meanings behind the mix of runes, listening to the various rune theories for casting, and beginning to form his own.

            “It doesn’t matter what’s on your skin, to be honest,” Alara told him one rainy afternoon squirreled away in her living room. “Maybe for now, while you’re learning, and maybe for guidance when you’re in a pinch, but I’m pretty sure you could write the word ASS on your arm with a Sharpie and use it to cast a fireball, if that’s what your intent was. But I think that takes a lot more work up here-“ she tapped her temple, “than just using the old rune sets.”

            “Also it looks cooler,” Stiles agreed, and she pointed a finger gun at him because he _got it_. Stiles got the feeling that most of the other casters did not really _get_ Alara. He wasn’t sure that she was _right_ , but he also was not ready to dismiss her runecasting theories, not when she was one of the better casters out of the group. She put runes together in ways that Stiles had to scramble to follow the logic behind.

            With the two dozen simple runes now on his skin, he could create hundreds of spells. Most of them, so far, were runes that affected his own body or mind or senses. The small Ansuz rune by his eye, for vision. The Dagaz under each ear for awareness. Uruz and Raido next to one another at the edge of his left wrist, the forerunners of the lines of other runes he had gotten patterned down his forearm. Almost all of the uses he had been taught for them were defensive or healing.

            “In the old world, doctors took an oath,” Deaton had told him softly, at the outset of his lessons, “that they will use their skills according to their ability and judgment, but never with a view toward injury or wrong-doing. So it is with casting; I will teach you, with the understanding that you will, in all circumstances, seek to do more good than harm, and avoid harm altogether, where harm can be avoided.”

            “First do no harm,” Stiles had said. It was a good philosophy, though he wondered how practical it could possibly be in the ruined world outside of New Hope.

            Deaton had smiled. “That,” he had said, “was never a part of the oath. Sometimes, we cannot avoid causing harm, but we should always seek to do the least amount of damage. We should always seek to use what we know to help others.”

            Cowed, Stiles had nodded, and accepted all of the lessons about defensive runes and how to cast them without questioning him further on the subject.

            Today, Ruth had etched his first destructive rune onto his right arm. They were mirrors of the runes on his left forearm, drawn backwards or sideways or upside down, runes for wrath and confusion and frailty and ending. These ones, she told him as she worked, were harder to master. These ones sometimes consumed the caster, destroyed them. These runes were not ones to take in, but to cast away from himself.

            Which was not, he was rapidly discovering, as easy as it sounded.

            He traced a rune, one intended to blind a foe, and the light welled like blood from a clean wound. Carefully, he lifted the rune from his skin, and held it on the tips of his fingers, watching it to ensure its stability. This part he was familiar with; as long as the runes stayed in contact with his fingers, with some part of his body, the light remained strong and bright.

            “It is not like throwing a ball,” Warren cautioned him, standing nearby but out of his line of fire. “It’s more like throwing a balloon, and you haven’t tied it off. The simple runes draw energy from the environment, rather than the caster, which is why you can use them without a heart rune. But you are still the connection between the two. Once it is out of your hand, the connection is gone, and the rune starts to lose power.”

            “So you want me to… put too much power into it?” Stiles asked dubiously.

            “I want you to tie off the balloon,” Warren said with a laugh. “It takes more effort, but really concentrate on how the rune feels when you draw it, especially when you take your finger off. You gotta feel the… click.”

            Stiles scowled. There was no click. There was no _anything_ at the end of a rune, except that little thrill of knowing he was about to cast actual _magic_. But these people, and Warren especially, cast spells off their own bodies every day, and he didn’t, so he would have to take Warren’s word for it. He would have to focus, and see if he could feel anything remotely like a click when he finished drawing a rune.

            He was not entirely sure how Warren knew he wasn’t doing it correctly, since as far as Stiles could tell, it was all just patterns of light appearing. Warren showed him a completed rune, one that _clicked_ , and Stiles compared it to his own, but he couldn’t see a difference. Couldn’t feel a difference. To him, they were the same, but to Warren, the runes differed somehow.

            Seven, eight, nineteen, fifty-three, a hundred and nine times he pulled the rune from his skin and performed the motion to throw it away from himself. Every time, the glow flickered and dissipated as soon as the rune lost contact with his fingers. By the time dinner rolled around, Stiles was ready to punch Warren the next time he said _again_.

            “You’ll get it,” Warren told him gently as they gathered their things to vacate the room they were using as a classroom. “Just keep trying. It always takes people the longest time to find the click.”

            Stiles sighed.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles gently shouldered open the door to the outside, intent on finding the pack to eat lunch with them before he got wrapped up in listening to rune theory with Alara again. The cluster of buildings gave way to the open fields at the edge of the clear space, the foggy, foreboding bog shimmering at the far side. Stiles spotted Derek’s dark form sitting in front of Deaton in one of the fields, his head tipped to one side as he listened to Deaton speak. Stiles smiled and headed their way.

            “-faster than many others I have taught,” Deaton was saying as soon as Stiles was within earshot. “Though he doesn’t appear to be picking up on the destructive rune casting, even still.”

            Deaton paused, and something prickled under Stiles’ skin at the manner of the pause, as though he were listening to Derek. Stiles had seen the wolves pause in that exact manner when they were listening to one another between wolf and beta shifts. He had seen other supers, like the vampires, listen like that. He had never seen a human listen to the wolves.

            “You may be right, but he’ll need to get over that if he wants to continue learning,” Deaton said, catching sight of Stiles before he could say anything else. “Stiles!”

            Derek flicked one ear back in greeting, and then got to his feet to leave.

            “Can you hear him?” Stiles demanded, perhaps more hotly than intended. He had been here for weeks, and if there was a way to hear the wolves, he wanted to know it. He wanted to know it _immediately_.

            Deaton looked taken aback, glancing quickly to Derek, and then nodded. “Yes, of course.” He flicked fingers over one of his runes, Eihwaz, and held up the blue, glowing rune for Stiles to see. He knew it- it was one of the first runes he’d gotten, tattooed onto the base of his throat. It had _hurt_.

            _Communication_ , his mind supplied. They had told him it was used for speaking and understanding languages he did not speak. He had never thought to apply it to speaking to the werewolves in their wolf forms, but it made altogether too much sense now that he knew.

            Instead of taking the proffered rune from Deaton, he traced the one at the hollow of his throat, not noticing Derek’s red eyes following the movement. The rune lit, and Stiles reached under his ear to trace Dagaz as well, before pulling Eihwaz from his throat and pressing one on top of the other and willing them to allow him to communicate with Derek. He felt the cool splash of magical energy suffuse his ears, and he waited until it dissipated before turning to Derek.

            “Say something?” he asked tentatively.

            Derek searched his face and for a moment Stiles thought perhaps it hadn’t worked. Perhaps he had combined the runes wrong, or put them in the wrong place, or had the wrong intentions when casting them.

            _Can you hear me?_

            Stiles made a choked off noise and covered his mouth with both hands. Derek’s tail gave a single, slow wag, his ears cocked forward and his head up now.

            _Is that a yes?_

            “Yes,” Stiles said breathlessly, only slightly taken aback by how much more beautiful he found Derek’s voice when it was fed directly into his mind. He had most certainly been missing out, not being able to talk to any of them when they were shifted. “How long will it last?” His gaze flicked to Deaton.

            “How long do you think?” Deaton asked, eyes soft and expectant. Always teaching.

            As long as he intended when he cast it, Stiles thought immediately. He didn’t respond, and didn’t think that Deaton actually wanted him to respond. Instead, he let the rune fade, and when he could no longer feel its effects, he traced them out again. This time, before he pressed it to his skin, he opened his hand and traced an infinity symbol on his palm. Blue light leapt to life under his finger and came readily from his skin, mixing eagerly with the other two symbols before he pressed the completed rune set to his ear again.

            When he looked up, Deaton was staring at him with an odd, contemplative expression. “Did I do it wrong?” Stiles asked, suddenly self-conscious.

            “No,” Deaton told him softly, shaking his head. “You drew an infinity sigil.”

            “Yeah, I… figured that would make it last forever, right? If that was what I intended, anyway,” Stiles explained. Heat flushed his cheeks at his sudden uncertainty over his unguided action. “Alara said that the rune itself probably doesn’t really matter, as long as the intent is there, but I figured if it was close…”

            “What I mean,” Deaton amended before Stiles could ramble any further, “is that you have no infinity symbol on your skin. Do you know how many runecasters can cast without guide ink?”

            Stiles gave him a puzzled look. “Alara says everyone can,” he said, because she had, and because it made sense to him. The ink used for the tattoos was in no way magical. It had no special properties that caused it to create the runes; like Alara had told him, writing on his skin with a pen could produce the same result. If the ink pattern did not matter, Stiles had figured not having the ink at all should not matter either.

            Deaton shook his head. “Alara theorizes that everyone _might_ be able to, under the right circumstances,” he corrected. “She, however, cannot. In fact, I am aware of only two others that have come through this camp.”

            _You broke it_ , came Derek’s silky voice. His mouth dropped open, tongue lolling, and Stiles shot him a withering look, but the joy of hearing him at long last overpowered any irritation at the jibe.

            “I didn’t break it,” Stiles hissed, but Deaton shrugged with a little wince that said otherwise.

            “You kind of did,” Deaton said. “But, sometimes breaking something is how to make it into something else, something better. That being said… I would suggest you finish learning the basics before you head off to reinvent the wheel.”

            Stiles laughed, but nodded. His attention shifted back to Derek, heart lifting. “Hey,” he said, flashing a bright smile. “You wanna go fuck with the others now that I can hear them?”

            Somehow, even as a wolf, Derek managed to roll his eyes.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles lay sprawled out on the grass at the edge of New Hope’s border, only a few feet between himself and the bog. The sun beat down in full force, and though the wind still carried the nip of winter, it finally smelled of spring. The trees in the bog never changed from their scraggly, sharp edges and moss coverings, but the trees inside the boundary were sporting small green buds and the brown of the grass had finally started to give way to green as well.

            Around him, the pack lay spread out, exhausted from their full moon run through the bog and the horrors they had found within. Stiles had found them a couple of hours ago, sacked out on the lawn after having eaten too much upon their return. Derek had stirred enough to shift his head, putting it square in Stiles’ lap so that Stiles could card his fingers through Derek’s thick fur, soothing him.

            “How was the run?” he had asked.

            _We found the other pack,_ Derek had told him hesitantly. _All of them dead. Starved. Peter knew them. Ennis Grant’s pack._

            Stiles swallowed against the sick feeling in his stomach. The bog had a will of its own, and had continued to keep the other pack separated from them. Despite their asking, the protective bog troll had indeed refused to bring the pack to the settlement and nothing any of them said had made a lick of difference.

            “You couldn’t have saved them,” Stiles told Derek quietly, fingers tightening in his fur.

            _It hurts no less for knowing that,_ Derek had said, closing his eyes.

            Neither of them had said anything more, and soon Derek’s breathing evened out into sleep and Stiles was left alone to watch over the pack. As safe as he felt among them, among an entire pack of werewolves during the full moon phase, it thrilled him more to know that they all felt safe enough to sleep around him without question. Even Laura slept soundly near his feet, paws and nose twitching as she dreamed.

            Rather than disturb them by rising, Stiles had begun idly tracing out the runes on his right arm, feeling for the click. It never came. He traced a rune, let it glow, slipped it off his skin with no effort at all, but when he flicked his fingers to cast it, the light died as soon as it lost contact. Over, and over, and over… a part of him knew that he had fallen into a sort of trance by now, the motions to cast automatic, unthinking.

            Trace, pull, cast.

            Trace, pull, cast.

            He watched yet another rune flicker out of existence, unsure what number as he had lost track well over an hour ago. He had begun to think that perhaps he was not cut out for the actual _casting_ part of rune casting. Ruth was frank enough to tell him it was certainly possible, and that other pupils before him had certainly quit before this point. None of the other mages seemed to hold it against him; none showed disappointment or pity for his inability to cast.

            _Use your heart, not your head_.

            Stiles stopped mid-trace and lolled his head to look over at Peter. Like Derek, Peter’s wolf voice was nothing like his human voice, but unlike Derek’s silky-smooth tone, Peter’s was cut of steel and honey, sharp and sticky. Stiles did not like it much, though he took care not to tell anyone that.

            “My heart?” he echoed as quietly as he could, knowing full well Peter would still hear him.

            _Your heart, yes_ , Peter reiterated, like Stiles was a particularly exasperating child. _You were told to trace out a rune and let it go. Your head agrees- make a rune, and then close it off from you to let it go. But you made it to keep, so your heart doesn’t want to let go. Form it already complete to go, no attachment from the start. Honestly, a toddler could figure it out faster._

            Stiles shot him a glare, but did not bother responding to the remark. Instead, he released the rune he had been tracing, and picked a different one, this one a glamour- a rune for deceit and disguise. He traced it slowly, pouring in his intent for it to be cast away from him even as the lines of light formed, and as he lifted his finger away, he felt a little snick of separation, like a mild, mental strike of static electricity.

            Suddenly, it made sense- the click.

            “Oh,” he said, small and big at the same time.

            _Yes, ‘oh.’_ Peter scoffed, and closed his eyes again.

            Stiles stuck his tongue out and flicked the rune at Peter’s head, watching it land squarely on his nose without waking the wolf. That was probably for the best, even though Stiles was sure the newly-pink fur all over his face would fade from one shift to the next.

            _Pretty_ sure, anyway.

 

* * *

 

            He notched his knife into the arrow shaft again, completing the rune. Placing the knife to the side, he traced over the rune once more with a fingertip, smiling softly as it flared to life with red light. He waited for the little snick that told him he could let go, and then passed the arrow shaft on to Lydia. She whirled it around in her hand and then settled it on her lap to fletch it.

            He picked up the next blank shaft and began to carve. “I’m glad you’re doing this,” he said idly, fingers working.

            Lydia smiled, fitting the strip of stiff feather into the shaft. “Allison would be happy to know her lessons won’t go entirely to waste,” she said. “And… it will be good for me. I don’t know what kind of power I have as a banshee, but if I can fire a bow, I can be useful in a fight.”

            He nodded along with her words, not bothering to argue. Although back at BHC she had occasionally filled in on scouting or clearing runs if they needed an extra hand, she had almost no combat experience. She had mostly done paperwork when they lived in Beacon Hills Camp, which was next to completely useless out here. Learning to use a bow, with rune-etched arrows that would always fly true, was her way to fend that feeling off the same way Stiles was using runecasting.

            Which was, he thought, a very strange thing indeed. They had been here almost two months now, and Deaton had long ago invited them to stay. Several of the mages had told them that having the wolf pack nearby was a treat in itself. Every day, Stiles learned more and more, enough that he would be ready to receive his heart-rune soon, and yet he had barely scraped the surface of runecasting. It was not like he would run out of things to do, if they stayed, and yet…

            And yet, despite all of it, this place did not feel like home.

            Stiles had left his camp to explore the world. New Hope was safe and good, but even now, he could feel the itch to wander, had begun to crave the open road under his feet, the wide open expanses they had traveled before arriving here.

            That was just him, however, and his own welfare was not the only consideration in his life.

            He looked up, eyes snagging on the frolicking forms of the wolves as they dashed around the closest lawn with three of the children that lived in New Hope. It looked like some kind of elaborate game of tag, with the wolves throwing their paws on the ground like excited puppies and the children squealing in delight. The pack was _happy_ here, he thought with a soft smile.

            “Do you think they’ll want to stay?” he asked.

            Lydia followed his line of sight to the game of tag, and she watched them for a little while, eyes tracking Jackson’s movement. “Maybe,” she said. “It wouldn’t surprise me.” She looked back at him, tipping her head like the wolves did. “Would you stay, if they did?”

            That drew him up short, surprised that he didn’t have an immediate answer.

            On the one hand, he knew he didn’t want to settle down somewhere; he could have done that at Beacon Hills, surrounded by friends and family. The entire point of leaving had been to get on the road, and meet new supernatural creatures and learn more about them. Maybe learn to change his own views, maybe change someone else’s.

            On the other hand, the thought of doing all of that without the pack made his stomach clench up tight and sour. His eyes followed Derek’s lithe, black form as he dashed among the others, tail up and wagging.

            “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Would you?”

            Again he found himself surprised that he didn’t know the answer to that, either. Jackson was here, part of the pack, had taken Derek as his alpha as sure as any of the others had. It seemed unlikely that Jackson would leave, but if Lydia wanted to…

            “I think so,” she said thoughtfully, then shot him a sidelong grin. “I mean, he took the bite for a reason. This seems like a good place to raise a kid, right?”

            Stiles blinked. Somehow, he had forgotten why Jackson had taken the bite, why Lydia was even out here with all of them. “Yeah,” he agreed, a little breathlessly. “Yeah, it would be perfect.”

            She gave him a strange look, her brows furrowing a little but the smile not leaving her face. “You really think there’s a chance you’d leave?” she asked. “If Derek stayed?”

            Stiles nearly swallowed his tongue, fingers tightening hard on the shaft as his hand slipped, the rune ruined. “If the pack stayed, I-“

            “Not the pack,” she corrected, grinning full now. “Just Derek.”

            With a sigh, he dropped the shaft into the small pile of others he had wrecked. He glanced back over to the wolves. Derek had stopped, allowing himself to be caught by a little girl in pig tails and a slightly stained dress that had obviously been salvaged from somewhere. She had her hands on his face, fingers curled in the fur of his cheeks and his entire body was bowed to let her reach. She gave him a great big kiss on his snout and he wuffed, shoving forward to lift her slightly off the ground as she held on, giggling.

            “You should tell him,” Lydia said gently, reaching out to put her hand on his knee, drawing his attention back to her. “He likes you, you know.”

            “Sure,” Stiles said, aiming for nonchalant and falling far short. “So do the others, I think.”

            “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Lydia chided.

            He rolled his eyes and gave a little huff. “I know. I just…” He stopped himself, watching the wolves as he tried to sort out his thoughts, tried to find the words to explain his hesitation. “They’re _werewolves_ , you know? They’re just so much more than I am.”

            He dropped his gaze to his shaking hands, and she covered them with one of hers. When he looked up, she smiled sympathetically. “You’re right. They are definitely prettier and better than you will ever be. It’s a lost cause. You may as well give up on everything instead of trying. Why bother?”

            He scowled, though he couldn’t muster enough ire to make it look remotely real. “You are so not helping,” he told her, much to her amusement.

            “I’ll help you when you stop being a drama queen and just tell your future boyfriend you love him,” she informed him, letting him go to pick up her next arrow.

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her, returning to the arrow shaft in his hand. He snuck another glance up at Derek, and beside him, Lydia laughed.

 

* * *

 

            “This is going to hurt,” Ruth told him, knife poised over his heart, the tip just resting against his skin without breaking it. “Possibly more than anything you’ve ever felt before in your life. And there’s no going back, once you’ve done it; you’re being bound to the magic as much as it is being bound to you. Though you may use it freely, you may find that sometimes… it uses you.”

            “I know,” he said, impatient and anxious and plain old scared.

            All of the runecasters in the camp had gone through getting their heartrunes inscribed. These ones were not a tattoo- these ones were a scar, over his heart, which would bind the magic of his soul to the magics of the world, and allow him to combine them into more powerful spells.

            The downside, as Ruth had already told him several times since he entered her workplace today, was that any rune set which hooked into his heart runes would draw upon his life force in the casting. These spells had the potential to kill him, if he cast them wrong, or if he burned too much to keep them going. As powerful as it would make him, it would also make him vulnerable; any mage capable of drawing magic from the world would also be capable of drawing upon his life force through that same bond. This allowed for group casting of certain spells, but someone with the will and ability to do so would potentially be able to use Stiles’ life force without his permission.

            Excepting _all of that_ , the very process of binding oneself to the world magics was sometimes fatal. Those who had not sufficiently trained, who were not well enough prepared to handle the initial surge until it balanced, were sometimes consumed by the process.

            It was, by all rights, terrifying.

            “I’m ready,” he said, trying to feel as sure as he sounded. Derek nuzzled into his elbow, and he patted blindly to the side, without turning his head.

            _You’ll be fine_.

            He smiled and then gasped at the first bite of steel into his chest. Looking down, he could see the rune-carved blade and the light that followed its path, illuminating the well of blood. It felt like it cut all the way through, through skin and bone and lungs and heart and spine and he found he couldn’t breathe in again. The pain snaked out to his joints and settled in hard, muffling his mind in a constant scream of sensation for long minutes as she worked.

            Dragging his mind back from the edge of unconsciousness, he struggled to stay alert, to stay in control as Ruth drew the last line of the third rune and lifted the knife. The light burned, hot and sharp as the world came crashing in all at once. He knew he screamed, but it made no sound in the wash of magic clawing and howling through his core, hollowing him out inside, grabbing onto everything that he was and wrenching at it.

            He wrenched back with everything he had, refusing to let it take him, refusing to dissolve into the whole.

            _You are mine_ , he told it fiercely, digging his heels in against the pull. It abated a fraction, and he gave another yank of his will. _You may not have me, without giving yourself._

            For a moment, for eternity, everything stayed frozen like that, a tug of war with no one and everyone pulling equally. Then the world magic gave a heaving shudder, and relaxed. The pull disappeared, replaced by a curious threading sensation, and Stiles opened himself to it, allowed a sort of equilibrium to settle into his bones as his life force twined up with the magics of the greater world.

            He sat up gasping, hands spasming as he clutched for something, anything, to hold onto. He found fur, thick and black and warm, and then Derek was practically squirming onto the top of him, pinning him down, and barking for help. Stiles let him, still breathing hard, eyes darting wildly around his unfamiliar surroundings and mind tearing over the vast sensation of _connection_ seeping in and out of him.

            “What happened?” he rasped around the thundering of his heart, barely louder than the clamor of magic and sensation rattling at all of his new connections.

            He reached across the connections to the feeling of _Derek_ and _wolf_ and _blood_ and beyond that to the feeling of another caster, a damp spot on the map of magic. Her access to the connections was closed, or nearly closed. He copied the feeling as best as he could, muffling out the magics of the world, and tried to just breathe.

            _You passed out_ , Derek said, giving his cheek a soft lick and resting his jaw on Stiles’ collarbone. _They were afraid you might not make it._

            “Oh,” Stiles said intelligently as the door opened to Ruth’s surprised face. “How long was I out?”

            “Two days,” Ruth said at the same time as Derek. “I see you’ve figured out how to shut the gate on the web. Can you sit?”

            “Not with a werewolf on my chest,” Stiles said seriously, and Derek wuffed but rolled off of him. Stiles struggled to sit up, his entire body aching and trembling, sensations pressing hard upon a sense he’d never had before. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”

            Ruth chuckled. “At first, yes. I suspect you’re hungry, mostly, and weak from not moving for a couple of days. I’ll fetch you out some bread and butter, see how that goes first. And I’ll send for Alan to help you with the rest.”

            “Thanks,” Stiles said, leaning back against the headboard. He must, he reasoned, be in Ruth’s house still. As soon as she closed the door behind herself, he reached out a hand to find Derek, who had settled on the bed beside him again.

            _I was scared when you didn’t wake up_ , Derek said plainly, putting his great big head right back on Stiles’ chest. He closed his eyes when Stiles began to stroke over his soft ears. _I don’t want to lose you. I can’t._

            “I wouldn’t leave you,” Stiles reassured him softly, surprised to find he meant it completely. He curled his fingers into the too-soft fur behind Derek’s ears and fell still, resting his head back as his eyes closed in exhaustion. “I would never leave you.”

            Tentatively, he opened up enough to feel the comforting thrum of his newfound magics, tracing along the web to the pack just to feel their interlaced connection of power, all leading back to Derek, and he knew the truth then. However he had felt about it a couple of days ago, Lydia had been correct. He had a place in the world, linked to this pack – _his_ pack – and whether they stayed or left, he would be by their side.

            _Sleep_ , Derek said, and his thrum was the loudest of them all, red and warm and heavy against Stiles’ new sense. _I’ll wake you when they get back. Sleep._

            Stiles surrendered to the gentle command without another thought.

 

* * *

 

            Though it took another two days, the trio of entwined runes over his heart healed. Because they needed to scar, Stiles could not simply heal them with any of his other runes. Instead, Ruth gave him two poultices from plants found out in the bog; one that caused the edges of his skin to curl like wet paper, the other that closed the seam of the cut and healed the wounds into thick, ropey lines of scars.

            He traced a finger over the runes- three of them, twined together. Sowulo for life force, Laguz for imagination and dreams, and Inguz for home. They connected him to the magic of the world permanently, allowed him to cast even the smaller runes with greater power. Where as he had been able to cast runes before, he felt like a mage now.

            “What happens if it’s damaged?” he asked softly.

            “You would no longer have access to the network. The magic used to create it cut into your skin and bone and soul,” Deaton told him from his chair near Stiles’ bed. “Unlike your other runes, this one must not be broken or blemished. That is why we trace it over your heart- anything which would damage them would likely kill you, as well.”

            “Can’t it just be redrawn?” he asked, looking up.

            Deaton shook his head. “The heartrune must be drawn over your core, somewhere. What you see on the outside is only a small portion of what has been carved into your body and soul. To attempt to redraw it after damage… you would cross over what is already there, and break the new rune. It would almost certainly allow the network to consume you.”

            Stiles let out a breath, feeling the void-like pull of the world magics against his senses, and shored up his defenses against it. “But the connecting ones?”

            Deaton nodded in agreement with the unspoken question. “They are the same as the others, linked to your soul only by merit of touching your heartrune. If they are damaged, they can be repaired. Do you know which ones you want?”

            “Guardian, and Shield,” Stiles said automatically. He knew there was enough room for both, and a third if he thought of it.

            “Protection spells, good,” Deaton said, a mix of relieved and pleased. “The Shield runes are the most commonly used. Guardian is… less so. It’s a very draining spell.”

            “I know,” Stiles said, but he could feel all the magic of the world thrumming at his fingertips, ready to be traced off into runes. He knew he could handle the Guardian cast. “I don’t know what to choose for a third.”

            Deaton nodded slowly, considering. “Have you narrowed it down any, from the list I gave you?”

            Stiles shook his head. Some of them, like Teleportation, seemed useful until he tried to apply them to any given situation. It could only take him to places he had already been, and he couldn’t bring anyone with him, and when he got there he’d be exhausted. As he had told Derek days before, he wasn’t going to abandon the pack, not even to save his own hide.

            Others, like the one to steal life force from an enemy, seemed overly-aggressive and carried the same double edge of having the power in the first place. If he were to use it against someone with a stronger will than he had, it was his own life force that would be forfeited.

            After a long few minutes of thought, Deaton shifted and said: “You run with a pack of werewolves. Have you considered Transference?”

            Stiles hummed in the affirmative, but the thought he had given it, though honest, was in passing. Transference required other beings to bind themselves to him. The spell wasn’t meant to do anything but make the other spells he used more powerful, which meant taking a longer time to cast anything, and in a pinch where lives might be on the line, he didn’t think that was the best idea.

            “You know, it goes both ways,” Deaton said quietly, and Stiles looked up, brows furrowing. “No, I’m not a mind reader, but I have heard enough of the same questions to know what yours looks like on a face. Transference works both ways. You can draw upon the power of those bound to you, but you can also send power to them. In your case, you could help your pack maintain their shift even through pain. You could strengthen their healing abilities. You can provide mental stability to them on full moon cycles, and allow them to keep their human forms through most of it. I’m sure you can come up with other ways such a rune could serve you.”

            Stiles breathed out slowly, brain a little shorted as he began to spin out the possibilities. “Oh,” he said. “Well that… that seems pretty good.”

            Deaton smiled. “I thought you might think so. I’ll walk you over, if you want, or I can go find the others for you.”

            “These ones are just ink, right?” Stiles asked, though he already knew the answer before Deaton nodded confirmation. “I’ll be fine, I’ll just go find them after.”

            After quick goodbyes, Stiles snatched up is shirt and, mindful of the still-tender scars, pulled it on. Deaton had assured him that the heart rune was healed enough to accept ink over it, which meant today was the day he could finally get his trio of heartlink runes. His belly gave a little twist of excitement- he had been looking forward to this since he’d first heard about the spells.

            When he reached Ruth’s house, Alara was waiting in the kitchen to let him in. She gave his back a too-hard slap and laughed when she heard his choices, but agreed that they were probably the best ones. She, herself, had Guardian and Shield, although she had taken Teleport as her third heartlink rune. She did most of the scavenging for New Hope, and it allowed her to travel great distances in smaller amounts of time. Taxing, she assured him, but worth it.

            “How do you think your rune guardian will look?” she asked as he followed Ruth’s _come on back_ to where she was set up in her office.

            Stiles gave Alara a questioning look. “Don’t they all look… the same? It’s the same spell for everyone.”

            Alara laughed and shoved lightly at his shoulder like he’d told a great joke. “You’re a hoot, kid,” she said, still grinning. “How can it be the same? It doesn’t draw from the world, it draws from your life and soul, so it’s gonna look like you! Well, not _you_ you, of course.”

             “Of course.” Stiles was not exactly sure he followed, but he nodded along anyway. He supposed it wouldn’t be long before he could do the cast, and he would figure out what she meant then.

            “Or maybe it won’t,” she added, and he contained his sigh. “Maybe your Transference rune will affect it.”

            “Can that _happen_?” he asked as he crossed the threshold into the workshop in Ruth’s back room. His footsteps turned hollow and harsh against the metal floor.

            Alara shrugged. “Who knows! Y’mind if I keep you company? I’ve only watched a couple heartlinks get inked.”

            “I don’t mind,” Stiles said as he climbed onto the table. Ruth smiled at them both, obviously waiting to hear what Stiles had finally settled on for his three. Stiles took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Guardian, Shield, and Transference,” he told her.

            Her smile lines deepened. “A protector unto the end,” she said amicably, and lifted the small, sharp device she used to ink them. He was fairly certain it was some kind of quill from a supernatural creature, lanced into his skin over and over and over until the pattern emerged. For as old as Ruth was, she had the steadiest hands he had ever seen.

            It still took several hours, with breaks now and again to breathe and heal, before the sets of runes were inscribed upon his skin, each set interlinked and then connected to his heartrune. He traced off the last healing rune and pressed it over the tattoos, watching the redness fade to pale, smooth skin, marked in black.

            “Wow,” he said breathlessly.

            “Lookin’ sharp, Kiddo,” Alara practically crowed. “C’mon, we should go give it a test run, eh?”

            Stiles looked to Ruth, though he knew he didn’t actually need _permission_ , and she nodded, still cleaning her tools. He rolled off the far edge of the table and skirted around it to follow Alara out the door. Chest tight, he whisked through the house at her heels, and they burst out of the house together, into the twilight.

            The pack was waiting for them, and his excitement caught quickly, sending them all into romping, barking circles, tails up and eyes bright. Lydia was there as well, just outside the door, and she ran light fingers over the runes when he turned to show her.

            “I see Guardian,” she said, tracing over the combination of Algiz, Hagalaz, Nauthiz, and Uruz.

            “And Shield,” he said, pointing to where Eihwaz touched Algiz. “And Transference.” He laid fingers over Gebo, Eihwaz, and Raido twined into one another and hooked into his heartrune. “That one’s gonna be a work in progress.”

            “Will it work on me?” she asked. She had done her research alongside of him, probably knew more about the way the runes worked than he did, even if she couldn’t actually use them. He was aware that she was in part humoring him, but he was too excited to be anything but appreciative of it.

            “I don’t know,” he said honestly, smiling. “If you want, we can try it later.”

            “Yeah,” she said. “It would be great if it did. Are you gonna show us the other two?”

            He couldn’t help his grin. “You know I’m dying to.”

            “I know,” she said with a matching smile, and stepped back. “Well all right, hotshot. Show us what you got.”

            Stiles took a deep breath and, with a look to Alara for the reassurance practically beaming off of her, he traced out the runes for Shield. Under his fingers they began to glow and he felt the sluggish pull of his own life force being fed into the spell. It wouldn’t damage him any just to manifest the shield, which was part of the appeal- it could only kill him if it was actively soaking hits meant for him, and anything which could completely drain the shield would be capable of killing him anyway.

            As soon as it was complete, he pulled the bright purple rune from his chest. He moved it to hold in both hands, and gave a slight twist of his wrists. The rune doubled in his grasp, and he twisted again, until it doubled a second time. He glanced up at the waiting audience, and then rapidly shook his hands in a twisting motion, and the shield exploded into hundreds of runes, shooting out to create a curved shield which became a dome as it grew, pulsing with energy and giving off a bright glow.

            _Should we test it_? Erica asked, blonde tail up and eyes bright.

            Though Stiles’ belly gave a little swoop at that, he nodded. Better to know what taking a hit felt like now, where he could stop it, than to have it overwhelm him out in the wild. “One at a time, though, okay?”

            Erica stepped forward first and took a running start at the shield. She turned her shoulder at the last second and slammed into it, _hard_. The runes under her shoulder crackled and _cracked_ , and Stiles felt like he’d been sucker punched as it drew energy from him to repair itself. Erica backed away, limping a little.

            _Apparently it hits back_ , she announced sheepishly. None of the wolves, as far as Stiles knew, had ever actually fought a runecaster.

            _Are you both okay?_ Derek asked, looking between them.

            “Fine,” Stiles answered at the same time as Erica, who was already shaking off the bruised shoulder. “That is gonna take some getting used to, but it wasn’t terrible. I imagine it would be worse the harder something hits.”

            “My turn,” Alara said, already twisting off a fireball from her right arm. Stiles turned just in time to see the blazing ball of runes blast and scatter across his shield, shattering over his nerves like broken glass and then stealing all his breath to reform.

            “Oh, that did not feel nice,” Stiles said, sucking in harsh lungfulls of air. He had been correct- the more power consumed, the more it hurt. He decided against ever getting into a firefight with another runecaster. “I think that’s enough for now,” he said, and the shield dissipated as soon as he let go of the will to keep it powered. Some of the energy taken was restored to him, but he still felt tired in a way he knew had nothing to do with sleep.

            “Think you’re up to spouting your Guardian?” Alara asked, leaning back against the side of the house. Ruth emerged from inside, twisted a couple of runes for light and tossed them into the air, muttering about heathens. Alara shot her a grin. “Kid’s got a pretty good shield. Taking bets on what his Guardian looks like.”

            “Hardly worth betting,” Ruth said, like it was a foregone conclusion. Stiles gave her a confused look, and then one to Lydia, who just rolled her eyes. “Go on then,” Ruth said. “If you’ve got it in you to cast.”

            Stiles took a steadying breath and then looked down, tracing over the runes for Guardian. They flared to life in deep red, and he lifted it off carefully, heart thrumming. They had taught him Guardian always manifested as something strong, but also that whatever the runes produced was a reflection of something inside of him. Something he thought would scare others, something he loved, something he thought would offer protection. He barely breathed as he twisted the runes twice and then cast the spell out to form itself.

            The original pair of runes sharpened into eyes and the rest began to replicate, twisting and brightening as it took shape in the time between one heartbeat and the next. Four paws hit the ground, and a huge, beautiful wolf made entirely of glowing, red runes took up a defensive stance in front of Stiles. The draw of its existence upon his life force was different than the Shield, heady and powerful and eager. It was not passive like the Shield had been; it was _aware_ in a sense, reacting to what he thought, but also to what happened around him. It felt _alive_. It felt _powerful_.

            It felt _familiar_ , and Stiles realized he recognized the form in front of him. He’d been watching it for months now.

            “Oh,” he breathed, reaching out a hand to lay it upon the Guardian’s back. Where he touched, the runes lit up golden and began to shine brighter. “ _Oh_.”

            “Ha, told you,” Ruth said, smacking Alara’s shoulder with the back of her hand as she turned to go back inside. “Looks just like his alpha.”

            Stiles dragged his gaze away from the runewolf to meet Derek’s glowing, red eyes. Ruth was right. The runewolf looked just like Derek’s wolf form.

            _Oh_ , he thought.

 

* * *

 

            The first time he thought to combine simple runes with his heart-linked runes, he had set his entire Shield on fire and had to be rescued by Warren and Isaac, who had been nearby watching. The Shield had kept them at bay until Stiles passed out from overuse of magic, and Stiles had spent two days recovering.

            It was a memorable learning experience.

            The second time he decided to be more careful, and combined his Guardian rune with Perth, changing the nature of the intent behind its casting so it would seek instead of guard. He had then let the runewolf find hiding members of the pack all over New Hope, until he was tired but not exhausted. Everyone had thoroughly enjoyed the game, and though Stiles had slept soundly that night, he was no worse for wear.

            The third time he combined two simple runes, Vision and Awareness, before twining them with Guardian, and found himself staring out at the world through his runewolf’s eyes. As he had no way to communicate, and no way to end the cast, he had run around terrorizing the entirety of New Hope until Derek followed him back to his catatonic body. Deaton had been fetched, and they, again, had to wait until Stiles lost consciousness from overuse of his life force.

            “You could have died,” Deaton scolded him when he woke up a full day later. Though he clearly wanted to be angry, Stiles could tell he was also impressed. “But I must admit, no one has thought to do that before. If you could find a way to give yourself a time limit or a way out, that would be a useful combination of casts. You could run with your wolves that way.”

            Stiles held up human hands, and wondered what he would have to do to get back. It was no wonder at all why the werewolves chose to stay as wolves most of the time. Maybe if he just…

            “If he bit me…” he said, letting the words trail off, mind whirling. As much as he had wanted to come out here with them, travel the wilds, meet supers, he had never wanted to _be_ one more than he did at that moment. Derek had told him it might kill him, but he realized now that maybe it would be worth the risk. “I could run with them if I-

            Deaton laid a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm enough to stop him. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” he said, and it sounded sad enough that Stiles thought maybe he really was. “If you took a bite from an alpha now, it would kill you for sure. There is a reason supernatural creatures cannot use rune magic.”

            He let his hands fall down to the bed with a sigh. Of course. He had known that, in some capacity, even if he had wanted just a moment to pretend otherwise. Rune magic was all that was left to him now, and so he would learn to use it. He would learn how to run beside the wolves, one way or another.

            Lydia, he found, was thrilled to help him comb through the lists of runes and sigils available in the small New Hope library. Spreading papers and books over desks, they tossed out rune combinations and reasonings for hours the following day, while Stiles was still too shaky on his feet to do much more than sit in a chair. The full moon was coming, and the wolves were too restless about it to be of any help.

            “Dagaz, reversed, has to be in there,” Lydia told him.

            “Dagaz is tricky,” Stiles argued. “By itself, it’d be very easy to interpret ‘end’ as ‘death’ and I really don’t want to die,” Stiles argued. They had already determined that they could trigger the end of the cast by returning the runewolf vessel to his human body’s location, it was just a matter of what command to give it to do so.

            “But it’s intention, right? When you cast, the spell works off of what you intend,” she said, for the fiftieth time. “You aren’t going to cast it intending to die.”

            “Add Othilla,” came a voice from the entryway.

            They both turned to see Alara leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “It can be used to mean ‘experience’ in some situations. Dagaz and Othilla together could signify the end of the experience. Though honestly I think your girlfriend’s right. If you cast Dagaz alone it’d be fine.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure, and you think if I wrote GAME OVER and cast it, that would be enough. But you weren’t trapped in that Guardian, and I’m not getting trapped in again, and I’m not dying to get out, either,” he told her hotly.

            She shrugged, using the motion to pop herself off the frame. “Suit yourself. Though, I do have a Guardian heartlink. If you want me to try it first, I’m game.”

            “I’d rather you didn’t,” Stiles said, turning back to their research. Lydia passed him a paper with information about the Othilla rune, and its proven uses, scribbled on the paper by one of the other casters. Experience was an uncommon but valid reading. “If I can get it to work safely, then I’d feel okay with others trying it, but I don’t want anyone getting injured because I had a bad idea.”

            “Except you,” Alara clarified, somehow keeping her grin contained enough. It did nothing to hide the amusement in her mock-serious tone.

            “Except me,” he agreed, ignoring the soft barb. “And it looks like you’re right. So, we have four runes and a hell of a lot of intention-“

            “Five runes,” Lydia interrupted, holding up a scribbled sheet of paper with notes about Eihwaz, the rune for communication. “Unless you don’t want to be able to talk again.”

            “Good call,” he said, and glanced to Alara, who nodded approval. “Okay. Okay, let’s try it then, right?”

            “Stiles, you can barely stand up for five minutes,” Lydia reminded him.

            “Well, then it won’t take long to wear off if I’m wrong,” he said, and shoved himself unsteadily to his feet.

            Alara gave him an arm to lean on while Lydia scooped their mess into some semblance of Not Mess, and then followed them to the outdoors. Stiles clambered down to sit on the grass, the memory of his brief but unpleasant bruise and subsequent concussion from hitting the ground yesterday still fresh in his memory. Lydia sat cross-legged next to him, but Alara remained standing a few yards away, obviously ready to observe for her own casting.

            _Order of intention_ , he reminded himself. He could do this. He reached up and quickly traced off the familiar vision rune by his eye, and then did the same for the awareness rune by his ear, feeding his intention to become aware of all that the runewolf was aware of into the cast. These he combined the same way he had done the first time he cast the combined spell.

            Then he pressed shaking fingers to his right forearm and traced off the inverse rune for Dagaz, then Othilla – _end the experience –_ and twined them together. This he rested in his left hand while he used his right to trace off Mannaz and Inguz – _home to self_ – and did the same, then bound all four together to form one spell. _End the experience when returned home to self._

            “So far so good,” Lydia assured him, eyes locked on the multi-colored rune set.

            He nodded, feeling better about this already. Through his shirt, he traced off the runes for Guardian, slipping them off his skin and very, very gently twined the two rune sets together. The runes changed from red and blue to red with an almost white aura.

            “Don’t forget Eihwaz,” Lydia said quietly.

            Again, he nodded. He had saved that one for last to ensure it would work with the entire set, rather than begin working at the end of the spell. He quickly pulled Eihwaz off his left forearm, and incorporated the rune into the set. It shivered, and paled for a moment before reddening again as Stiles closed off the set, completing it.

            _See and sense as the Guardian, end the experience when returned home to self_.

            It was the most complex spell he had ever cast, and he could only hope that it worked exactly as he intended. He really did not want to wake up dead.

            Before he could psych himself out of it, he gave two twists of his hands, and released the Guardian rune set from his grasp. He had enough time to see it begin to form, red eyes glowing bright, before he found himself staring at his own body, and Lydia’s beside him.

            As quickly as it had happened, it ended, and he was back in his own body, the runewolf nowhere in sight. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Lydia gave a sharp bark of laughter, startling Stiles so hard he nearly toppled over.

            “Oh,” she said, when she could speak. “It worked, it just ended because you were at yourself already! We’re going to have to find a time marker.”

            Her words broke the tension in his core, and he found himself giving a relieved puff of laughter that turned real as he flopped back onto the grass. He’d done it. It had worked, and it would work again when he found a way to give himself a head start. He could be a wolf again, soon.

 

* * *

 

            Though the sun was closer to rising than setting now, Stiles remained awake, staring blankly up at the ceiling, the phantom feeling of runes still sliding under his skin. He had finally done it this afternoon, perfected his new Guardian rune so that he could remain a wolf until he wanted to stop. From concept to completion, even with Lydia’s tireless help, it had taken a long time- so long that Stiles had nearly forgotten _why_ he wanted to do it in the first place.

            He curled lax fingers into the fur of Derek’s shoulder, not enough to rouse the wolf, but enough to touch the heat of his skin, feel the sleepy thump of his great heart. Stiles wanted to run with them, with all of them. They were his, had become his sometime in the last few months in ways he could never have guessed back home, and he wanted to be theirs in a way other humans could never be. He wanted to run with them so badly it ached down to his _bones_ , kept him up at night, and still he had no idea how to ask.

            _You’re thinking too loudly_ , Derek told him, not even opening his eyes, even his mental voice sounding sleep muddled.

            “You can’t hear my thoughts,” Stiles mumbled, barely audible.

            He wasn't entirely sure that was true, after the day they'd had. Stiles had spent the better part of the day connecting his transference heart rune to the pack, giving the wolves the ability to draw on his power. It had left him physically exhausted, to have so much power given and taken and used, but it was the good kind of ache. The kind that assured him that what he had done would ultimately make them all stronger. He did not think it was supposed to allow the wolves to hear his thoughts, but he could not say for sure it didn't.

            _No, but_ _I can hear your heart,_ Derek said, settling the debate. _Whatever you’re worrying about keeps making it louder._

            “Sorry,” Stiles said, feeling a flush heat the back of his neck in embarrassment. Usually the wolves slept too soundly to be kept up by something so quiet. Usually there was too much else around them making noise, crickets or wind or things Stiles didn’t have words for. With all of them curled up in piles in a safe room within a safe settlement, the only sounds were of breathing and heartbeats. And thoughts loud enough to wake an alpha.

            Derek’s eyes cracked in the darkness, red slits glowing as they focused on Stiles. Still, he did not lift his head from where it lay at Stiles’ shoulder. _Are you okay?_ he asked, instead of any of the myriad questions Stiles knew he had to have had.

            “I want to run with you,” Stiles said, the words startling out through his exhaustion. Once he started, he found he could not stop. “As a wolf, as my Guardian rune, I want to… I want to run with you. On the full moon.”

            Derek’s eyes widened as he kept speaking, and the utter silence after Stiles stopped put a vice around his heart. He wanted this. He wanted it more than anything, and Derek had the power to tell him no, to remind him that he was only human, to tell him in no uncertain terms that everything Stiles thought they might have did not amount to enough. That he was still just a human kid, different, separate.

            _Okay_ , Derek said.

            “Please, Derek, I- okay?” Stiles echoed, mind catching up to the word.

            Derek leaned his weight against Stiles a little more heavily, as if he could melt into Stiles’ side. _Okay_ , he repeated. _If Deaton thinks it is safe, and you are well rested, then you… then I- I want you to run with us, too._

            Stiles’ heart leapt in his chest, almost painfully so, thundering so fast it made him dizzy even lying down. He tightened his fingers in Derek’s fur for a second and then pressed his flat palm against Derek’s shoulder to push the wolf a little closer. Derek closed his eyes.

            _We can discuss it in the morning_ , Derek told him. _Go to sleep._

            Stiles knew he would not be able to follow that particular command, but if his racing heart kept Derek awake any longer, it was out of happiness now instead.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles stretched runed paws out on the grass, watching the red light play upon the blades with a warm feeling of happiness. Behind him, the wolves were milling, waiting for Derek, who had stopped to talk to Deaton again about watching over Stiles’ body while they ran. Derek’s major stipulation of the run was that Stiles’ body would be watched over the entire time, in case anything went wrong with such a long Guardian cast. Though Deaton had assured Derek it would be fine, since Stiles could draw on the energy of the pack, energy they would have in abundance under a full moon, he had agreed to keep an eye on Stiles.

            _Doing okay?_

            Stiles turned to see Jackson standing beside him, and raised his tail to give a slow wag. _I’m good_ , he replied, still appalled that his voice as the Guardian grated like scraping two long pieces of cement together. Awful. _Excited._

            Jackson gave him a tongue-lolling grin, and then looked over his shoulder to where Derek had joined the group. Stiles followed the look, and met Derek’s eyes for a split second, a little thrill jolting through him. They were wolves, and he was a wolf alongside of them. Maybe not quite the same, but close enough, connected in a different way, through the magic that coursed through them all because of Stiles.

            Derek lifted his jaws and loosed a long, deep howl, joined by the others one by one until the night was full of their song. Stiles raised his own jaws to mimic, though he found he could produce no actual noise in this form. He would have to work on that when they got back.

            Then Derek gave a powerful leap forward, the pack – Stiles included – surging around him like waves to the shore, and they took off into the bog.

            This time, the bog did not form solid ground beneath their paws, but it had no need to. The wolves ran like they had always traversed these grounds, springing from fallen logs and raised roots and splashing through clear water with a wild sort of abandon. Stiles followed after, pleased that not actually having muscles meant no accompanying burn, only the thrill of watching his huge paws eat ground. Only the comfort of warm pelts running close enough to brush against his runes, and the silky feel of air moving over and through him as he kept pace.

            He stretched his stride and caught up to Derek at the head of the pack, keeping up as the alpha splashed from moonlit puddle to moonlit puddle. Derek matched him step for step, until it felt more like some kind of dance than anything. The rest of the pack, the rest of the _world_ , dropped away for a time as they slipped through the forest, one the color of night, the other glowing like the moon.

            Perhaps the best of it was the sense of connection he could feel coursing through him. Rune magic might not be accessible to supers, but these ones were a part of it, still surrounded by it, still affected it, both in ways Stiles had caused and in ways he had not. Their shapeshift was a sibling magic, alike and yet not the same, touching and still separate. It felt like puzzle pieces fit around each other, each belonging to the whole in different ways.

            The edge of the forest came more swiftly than anticipated, and Stiles realized that the bog would not hold his pack, when they chose to leave. They had no map of it, no way to tell left from right, no way to stop it from looping them around in circles, and yet it knew them. It knew Derek’s song, and Peter’s footprints, and the brush of Boyd’s fur through its underbrush. Friends. Allies, at the least, and able to find their way through from start to finish without a guide.

            Without a word exchanged, the pack flowed to follow the border, dancing along the edge between their reality and the next. Here the bog was thinnest and the moon shone down on them in large patches, so bright and clear it felt as though it had a physical presence. It didn’t soothe him the way it did the wolves, but he could feel the way they lost themselves so completely to it, could feel the feral parts of them leaping to the forefront to guide them.

            For just a little while, Stiles gave himself over to the most similar sensation he could find; he let go of the iron hold he had upon the border between the world’s magic and himself, let it crawl inside of him in a way he had been afraid to do since it had nearly torn him from his body. But he had no body here, was already out of it to run beside the wolves, and it didn’t scare him anymore.

            So, he twined his mind up into the push of the magic, and let go, let it carry his feet along the same path as the wolves and the moon and the magic of the bog. He let it sing inside of him, loose and sprawling and powerful, until it bled into corners of his mind he hadn’t even known existed.

            He ran like that until there was nothing left but the world magic coursing through him, the brush of fur on all sides, the heaving breathing of the wolves as they shifted from a group of bodies to a single entity, to a pack. He ran until his mind was wild with them, until he forgot he wasn’t one of them, until they burst into a clearing deep in the bog and scattered to a halt.

            Derek looked up, to where the moon was beginning to set, and Stiles realized it had to have been hours since they set out from New Hope. Laura’s attention shifted skyward, and then back down to Derek, who bowed his head an infinitesimal amount. She bowed in return and with a sharp yip, the pack shifted to follow her as she leapt back into the cover of the trees.

            Stiles stepped to follow, but Derek caught him first, body pressing solidly up against his side. The touch slid electric over Stiles’ hide, the runes glowing brightly as they crackled and bent, and Stiles shuddered. The pull of reforming the runes Derek touched tugged at his innards, or maybe it was just the proximity of the other wolf. Either way, when Derek took off in the opposite direction of the rest of the pack, Stiles followed without hesitation.

            And this, this was _different_ than the front end of the night. This was the two of them, night and light, side by side. The connection Stiles had felt to the whole entire world narrowed down to just the wolf beside him, to just the bunch of muscles under sleek fur, the harsh pant of breath and the sound of paws against the marshy ground. For a time, he was a part of the runewolf, and a part of Derek, both of them moon-touched as they traveled without attention to anything beyond themselves.

            Every step he took echoed with the journey they had made together, from the first time he had seen Derek in the woods of home to the next stride they took in tandem here. In every panting breath he could feel the way their lives had interlinked, on the backs of dragons, on the run from death, in the small, warm room above a gathering of hunters. Every step was a shared smile, a look that lasted a little too long, the shiver of words left unsaid.

            Every brush of fur against rune whispered of gentle conversation and quiet moments of shared company and the peace they had found together among the ruins of the world.

            Every tug of his runes reforming spun out everything they could yet be, everywhere they could yet go, everything they could yet do, and Stiles found that he ached with the knowledge of it. He _wanted_ all of that. Needed it.

            _Derek_ , he said without slowing at all. _Take me home. We have to go home._

            Without hesitation or question, Derek took a sharp turn and Stiles didn’t miss a beat. He could feel the thrumming of Derek’s heart through the network, faster than his would beat back in his body, and he was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to be back in his own skin, to be able to touch Derek with his own two hands and nothing in between them.

            They burst onto the lawn of New Hope’s far edge as one, paws slamming on grass instead of rushes and mud. Stiles turned toward the house the pack had been sharing, Derek at his heel even though he hadn’t asked. He would- he would beg if he had to, if only Derek would go with him, would come back to him.

            Deaton waited for them at the door, opening it and stepping aside so that they did not have to stop as they thundered into the house. Stiles jumped the stairs more than two at a time, already feeling the way his runes fell apart at the seams with his proximity to his body. He reached the top landing, and opened his eyes in the bedroom, safe and sound and exhausted, an aching need thrumming under his skin so hard it left him light headed.

            A second later, Derek appeared in the doorway, red eyes bright, and Stiles all but dropped out of the bed to meet him, not noticing the way he barked his knees on the hardwood floor. Derek was at his side a moment later, wet and dirty from the marsh but warm and solid and present, his fur melting away to skin even as Stiles pulled him closer, pulled them together.

            The feel of Derek’s lips against his was relief and desperation and joy and _home_ , and Stiles kissed him with everything that had been building since that first night in the old, weather-torn house back in Beacon Hills. Kissed him with everything he still needed to say, everything he wanted to promise never to leave unsaid. Kissed him with everything he’d never had a name for until now.

            “Derek…” he breathed when they finally broke apart. He brushed gentle fingertips along Derek’s very human jaw, the phantom feel of the full moon still prickling at his skin. “How…”

            “I don’t know,” Derek whispered, forehead still pressed to his as he shook his head, hands trembling where they lay on Stiles’ chest, over his heart. He closed the space between them again, hot and desperate in a way that reverberated within Stiles. “I don’t know how.”

            _Because you’re mine,_ Stiles thought fiercely as he kissed Derek back, connecting to and claiming him the same as he had the world magic, offering all of himself in return. _You’re mine_ , he thought, fingers sliding down Derek’s neck, down the bare skin of his chest, sucking in a breath when Derek roughly pushed into the touch, giving himself, claiming him back.

            Stiles could still smell the forest on Derek’s skin, hear the echo of his howl, feel the phantom brush of fur over vanished runes, and he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that Derek should still belong to the moon tonight. Did still belong to her.

            But as Derek’s hands dragged down his sides, curling under his hips to lift him off the floor and toward the bed, Stiles also knew that tonight… tonight, the moon would have to share.

 

* * *

 

            The murmurs of the council died down at Allison’s question, but Jane raised one hand slightly for attention. “Of course, we would like to get through this as quickly as possible, but I’m afraid I just need to clarify your last statement. You believed your husband wanted to be… well, in human form badly enough that he resisted the force of the full moon? I’ve just never heard of that happening.”

            Allison gave a little shrug, not sure what exactly Jane wanted out of this exchange. Her tone was not hostile; Allison did not think Jane was attempting to somehow trick her or catch her in a lie. She seemed genuinely interested, and Allison suddenly found herself wondering exactly how much knowledge about werewolves this woman had come to Beacon Hills armed with. Anyone from the center city would surely have better knowledge of supers than somewhere like Beacon Hills- they would have been able to get information straight from the horse’s mouth. Or straight from the werewolf’s mouth, as it were.

            “Maybe it didn’t happen anywhere else,” Allison suggested. She’d had the thought often enough. “How many werewolves have you heard of living in the middle of a hostile human camp?”

            “None, I’m afraid,” Jane conceded, a smile curling one corner of her lips, as though Allison had said exactly what she had wanted her to say.

            Allison shifted, uncomfortable at having played into that. “Look, I’m not saying that’s what was actually going on, but that’s what it seemed like. He was trapped here without a pack, no other wolves to run with or anchor him to anything. We were all he had, and maybe that did something. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of wanting, but a matter of having. Maybe it was both, I don’t know,” she admitted. “What I do know is that when he had us, when he was right there with us, he stayed human. Even during the full moon.”

            “Fascinating,” Jane said. “You became a surrogate pack, so to speak.”

            “I-… Yeah, I guess we were,” Allison said.

            Jane studied her for a brief few seconds, and then looked down to the notes she carried with her everywhere. Allison would have given a lot to be able to paw through them, to have some sort of insight into the woman’s thoughts. As it was, she had to wait until Jane motioned vaguely to the notes and looked back up at her.

            “As I understand it, though, that was not the case forever,” she said slowly, meaningfully, and Allison’s belly sank. She had known this part was coming. She had known she would have to explain things.

            “No,” she said quietly, dropping her gaze and steadfastly not looking in her father’s direction. “It wasn’t.”

            Jane’s voice gentled over her next words. “And can you tell us why not?”

            Allison looked up to meet her eyes briefly, old pain warring with new anger. They shouldn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t have to relive the past. But, to get what she wanted, to get Stiles and Lydia out of the prisons they’d been in for so long, these records needed to be set to right. She let out a shaky breath and steeled herself for what was ostensibly the most damning part of her testimony.

            “Because he turned others,” she admitted quietly, straightening and raising her head to look defiantly at the council. Not one of them looked surprised, and she knew why. They had not just heard about this previously; they had all been a part of this story. “Three of them. A pack.”

            “A pack,” Jane agreed, no inflection to her tone. “And what happened to Mr. McCall’s pack?”

            Allison’s gaze shifted just slightly, locking eyes with her father. She raised her chin a little, jaw set and anger outburning the hurt. “The camp killed them. Murdered them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I am totally stoked for this chapter, I've been looking forward to it since I first started writing this story, and I hope that you enjoyed it as much as I did. Please let me know what you thought!


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